Ridding the World of Vice
by Laura Cody
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
As Vice’s consciousness faded, the last words Shags had said somehow rose from the sludge in Vice’s brain and slapped sense inside his skull. His shoulders started bouncing up and down, and he guffawed manically. “I bet my soul to a bald little man in a pub toilet!” he exclaimed and started laughing even louder. “I must’ve been piss-drunk.”
“I’d say so, laddie.”
“Thanks, Shags,” he said, rising from his stool, hanging onto the bar for balance. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m going to hit the can, and then you can set me up with another when I get back.”
Shags gave a dubious nod and watched Vice stumble toward the men’s room. It was a one-person bathroom, and Vice was relieved to find it unoccupied. He locked the door and absentmindedly located his zipper as he turned to face the toilet, then jumped back, shoulders slamming the door with a painful thud.
He and the apparition stood staring at one another for a tense moment. Finally, Vice asked, “What is it with you and bathrooms?”
“Hello, Mr. Viceroy,” the man said. “Just here to remind you how real I am. This is very real.”
Vice surged forward to the toilet, his hand in his open fly, ready to shove his visitor — and shove him hard — out of the way. It was unnecessary, though. The guy was in his way one moment, and then he wasn’t. Vice pondered this agility as he shut his eyes and swayed before the toilet, emptying his bladder in a satisfyingly strong stream. He gave a shake, zipped his fly, and turned back around to find the guy standing between him and the sink. “Don’t forget to wash your hands,” the little man admonished, stepping aside.
“Who are you?” Vice asked.
“I told you.”
Vice looked skeptical. “The Angel of Death?”
“Not an angel.”
A knock on the door broke the awkward silence that ensued. Vice didn’t move.
The guy shrugged. “Well?” He nodded toward the door. “Someone’s waiting.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Vice mumbled.
“Of course, you don’t,” the man said. “You’ve got five hours and seventeen minutes.”
And then he was gone.
Vice looked at the blank space where the man had been standing just a moment before, and his pulse quickened. This was all real. It’s real. It’s—
He flew from the men’s room, past the bathroom line, and began shouting, “It’s real! Shags, it’s real! I saw him again. In there... I saw him again.”
People along the length of the bar quieted to hear the rambling madman. Shags looked up, a glass in one hand, towel in the other. He squinted and looked hard at Vice. “In the toilet? What’d you do? Make it double-or-nothing?”
A few men at the bar sniggered, but Vice ignored them. He suddenly felt very alert. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “My time’s running out. I’ve got to go!” He took a step toward the exit.
“Wait!” A loud voice boomed over the bar, and Vice halted. “You have a tab to settle, lad,” Shags shouted. Seeing he had Vice’s attention, he lowered his voice: “Before you go.” Two men at the bar turned around on their stools and looked at Vice with malevolent interest.
Vice walked over to the bar and pulled out Sheree’s wallet.
“Skipping out without paying the tab would not be a nice thing to do,” Shags said. He handed Vice the bar check, and Vice passed him the money. “There’s a good lad.” Shags gave Vice a gentle pat on the shoulder now that they had settled up and there were no hard feelings. “Now get out there and do a good thing!” He spoke like a Little League coach encouraging a child.
“I’ve been trying—”
“For crying out loud, it’s not so hard,” Shags laughed. “Let’s see... there’s that soup kitchen on Charles and Main. Why don’t you make a donation? Bring some food for the hungry? See? Nice thing.” He smiled and patted Vice again on the shoulder. He hesitated a moment, then leaned forward and said in a hushed tone. “But wash up first, Vice. You smell like shite.”
Vice careened along the streets looking for a supermarket. He pulled into a parking lot, haphazardly parked his car across two spots, and grabbed a cart. He whizzed through the electronic door and wheeled up and down the aisles. He filled his cart with canned beans, soup, corn nibblets, and a few tins of Spam, then sped toward the cashier, bumping into the display of boxed cereals which tumbled to the floor. He didn’t stop.
Vice loaded his goods onto the conveyer belt and watched the check-out girl scan his items. She presented him with the total, and he pulled out the wallet. To his horror, Sheree had only six dollars left, leaving him fifty-three short. Dammit! The cashier picked at something underneath a fingernail on her right hand as Vice pounded a fist on the conveyer belt. Unimpressed, she looked up and informed him that he could pay by credit. Vice said he had no credit card. Debit? Still, a no-go. Vice stamped a foot and glowered at the customer waiting in line behind him who seemed to be trying to discern the source of a foul smell. This can’t be happening! He was about a minute away from a full-body tantrum.
The cashier flicked something from her nail to the ground. “Sir, if you can’t pay for these, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Vice stared at her stupidly while she called for a manager, then skulked out of the store.
Behind the steering wheel in the dusky parking lot, Vice sat and stared. His head was fuzzy, humming with anger and drink and, now, fear. He might be dead in a few hours. And worse than dead, he might go to... a bad place, a very bad place. He quivered in the dark car as water filled his eyes, and he pressed the tears back with his fists. He began shaking and stuck his knuckles into his mouth. When had being nice become so hard?
Vice sat for several minutes, biting his fingers and savoring the pain. When he tasted blood, he felt oddly grounded. He removed his fist from his mouth and gazed at the blurry bite wounds. A crimson droplet erupted to the surface and rolled along the curve of his finger, falling to his lap. Another followed.
He put the car in reverse and began to back out of his spot, a new idea taking shape. Almost instantly, he slammed on the brakes, and the lurch of the car sent a wave of nausea through his body. “Watch where you’re walking, asshole!” he shouted, as a grey-haired man with a pushcart crossed behind him. When he’d passed, Vice hit the gas and loudly screeched from his spot. He had one more idea, and it was worth a try.
Vice drove to the hospital going about twenty over the speed limit. He weaved his way in and out of cars to an audio-track of blaring horns, but he took no heed. Time was whittling away, and this was quite possibly his last chance.
Vice arrived at the Emergency Room and was shown to triage. “I need to donate blood.”
“This is the Emergency Room.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m here to give blood. For any emergencies. I’m a type A. Or maybe B or C.”
The triage nurse sighed impatiently. “Sir, the hospital does have a blood bank that accepts donations, usually through appointment. I can give you the information.”
“They don’t take walk-ins?”
“It’s after 6 p,m. on a Saturday. They’re closed now. I suggest you call on Monday and schedule an appointment. Now, if you will please—”
“Goddamn it!” He punched his fist onto the triage desk, and the nurse jumped. “I need to make a donation NOW!”
The nurse’s eyes widened, and her body posture tensed. There was a knock at the door, and it was pushed open by a security guard. “Everything okay in here?”
“This gentleman needs to leave.”
The guard looked at Vice, who shook his head vigorously from side to side. “No, I am not leaving. I’m almost out of time.” The nurse and the security guard exchanged glances.
“Out of time for what?” the nurse asked.
Vice continued to shake his head. “You won’t understand.” His eyes filled with water, and he suddenly looked lost and bewildered. “I have one chance, only one chance, or I’m going to die tonight.”
“Die?” the nurse asked, raising her eyebrows. “I’m not sure I’m following—”
“How about a kidney? You can take my kidney! I only need one, right? Yes! Let’s do it! DO IT!”
“Sir, just calm down.” The security guard was less than a yard away now.
“You have to help me, or I am going to end up dead tonight!”
The security guard looked to the nurse for direction. She pressed her lips together and folded her hands atop the triage desk. “Okay,” she addressed Vice with professional calmness, “let’s settle ourselves down and go over some basic information, so we can help you.”
“You’re gonna help me?” Vice’s lip trembled, and a tear slid down his cheek.
“Absolutely.” She nodded to the security officer. “He’s going to escort you to another waiting room where a doctor is going to come and speak with you and help you figure this all out. I’m calling over there now, so they know you’re coming.”
“Yeah, good,” Vice said as another tear streaked down his face.
“One question I have to ask. How much did you drink today?”
Vice was about to protest, but a look at the nurse told him that it was useless. “I had a few.”
“Okay, we’re going to take some blood for testing and set you up with an IV while you’re here. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good luck to you, Mr. Viceroy.” The security officer led him out of triage.
Vice was led down a hall that connected to a locked corridor. The officer unlocked the door and brought Vice inside. He was searched, given hospital pyjamas, and an IV was started. He was shown to a small room to wait, and he waited and waited. Finally, he shouted for the nurse, demanded to speak with someone, said he couldn’t wait any longer. When he was ignored, he grew angry, ripped out his IV and started to pound on things. This got him attention and, before he knew what was happening, several orderlies and nurses came into his room. He was offered a medication to help him calm down. He took it, and he calmed down.
A young doctor came to talk to him. She had kind eyes. Between the calm-down med and the kind eyes, Vice had no problem opening up. He talked all about the man in the bathroom, and the deal he’d made. He told the kind-eyed doctor that he needed to do one nice thing. He asked her about giving a kidney.
“Probably not in the next hour,” she said. But she told him that someone would be along to bring him upstairs. Everything would be fine.
Vice took the doctor’s hand in his and wept with relief. “Thank you.”
The doctor handed him a pen, had him sign some papers. Then, she tossed the pen and went off to wash her hands. Vice dozed.
He awoke some time later in a wheelchair in a quiet, dark hall. A nurse with a clipboard was standing beside him. The lights were dim. “Welcome to unit 5B,” she said, hardly looking at him. His IV was clamped and his neck felt stiff from the way he’d been slouched in the chair. “Is this a surgery unit?” he asked. “My kidney—”
“This is psychiatry, honey.”
“Psychiatry?” The nurse was speaking, but her voice was just a buzz in Vice’s head. Suddenly, he jolted to alertness. “What time is it?”
“It’s nearly eleven o’clock,” she answered. “It’s past lights-out. I just need to get your vitals, and then I am going to settle you into your room for the night.”
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Hush, honey. That’s what they all say.”
The nurse helped Vice into a bed. She took his temperature and his blood pressure, then covered him with a white knit blanket up to his neck. “Try to get some sleep,” she said and wheeled out her mobile blood pressure monitor.
Almost instantly, the bathroom guy appeared.
“How’d you get in here?” Vice asked, sitting up in the bed.
The man shrugged and scowled, the question unworthy of answer. “Mr. Viceroy,” he said with poorly feigned disappointment, “you lost the bet.”
“I tried,” Vice said weakly. “I tried.”
“Tried is not good enough,” the man said. “It’s not like it was a very hard task.” He laughed.
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“Whose fault was it?”
“I tried to adopt a dog.”
“You should have tried just petting a dog.”
“I tried to volunteer—”
“You could have just held the door open for an old lady.”
“I tried to donate blood! I tried to donate a kidney!”
“You could have just said Gesundheit to someone who sneezed.”
Vice bowed his head. “It was supposed to be easy.”
“It would have been easy. But not for you.”
Vice stared down at his feet.
The man continued. “For someone like you, nice is downright hard.”
Vice looked up at the man with glassy, weary eyes. His shoulders sagged, and he deflated. “So what now?”
“It’s time to rid the world of Vice.”
There was absolute silence in the room, then the man gave a little wink. “So to speak.”
Vice leapt from the bed and lunged toward the door.
“It’s too late for that,” the man said, rolling his eyes. His face took on an ugly sneer and Vice felt paralysis in his legs. “There’s no escape now. You made a deal with the ultimate deal-maker. You got your twenty-four hours, and now there’s no going back.”
“They’re not going to let me leave here just like that,” Vice challenged, jerking his chin toward the hall.
The man chuckled. “They don’t have to give permission.”
“But... I don’t want to go,” Vice whispered, a tear escaping his left eye. “I tried.” He shook his head from side-to-side. “But I don’t know how to be anything other than I am.”
“And therein lies the rub.” His visitor sighed, and he looked at Vice for a moment with a face not entirely unkind. Without further ado, he waved a hand in the air and Vice felt himself begin to drain. First, all the warmth...
“It’s a common misperception,” the man began, “that all people have goodness buried deep down inside them. That, with the right setting, the right opportunity, goodness will spring forth and blossom like the snowballs on a hydrangea.”
Next, all the light...
“But it isn’t so, Mr. Viceroy. There are some people that are just missing something. Instead of swimming in wide oceans of love and compassion, their souls stagnate in thick, stinking swamps.”
Last, that undefined space where laughter and joy mingle was squeezed shut, compressed into non-existence.
“I’m taking you home now.” The man brushed at the sleeves of his jacket, readying for a journey, his job done.
Vice felt a tingle of relief. Maybe it had all been a joke, a test. He’d learned. He’d be different now.
“To the swamp.”
No! Vice tried to expand his lungs for a breath of air but found he couldn’t. He put his hand to his chest and collapsed to the floor.
The little man stopped talking, tilted his head to the side and took a small step forward toward Vice. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and shook his head. Then he snapped his fingers and was gone.
Copyright © 2021 by Laura Cody
