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When I approached the workshop on my Chevrolet Lumina, I pulled over into a gap among the workers’ parked vehicles, but during lunch break and at the end of the workday, dozens of people with limited reasoning would be swarming near my car. What if some shift in their thinking made them curious enough to pry open the trunk? People who died in their own homes ended up discovered after someone forced the door.

Instead, I parked outside the adjacent lot, an abandoned tire store. Far from the other cars but near enough to the shop to discourage any vagrant from stealing it. With my luck, I had to consider those possibilities. I belonged to the same breed as that ranger who got struck by lightning so many times he ended up in a wheelchair, then shot himself, and whose tombstone was split by another lightning bolt.

I closed the car door and walked a few steps ahead. No one was roaming the workshop’s yard. The clamor of machinery streamed out of the two-story building with its corrugated metal walls as though it were suffering indigestion.

A quick glance at my Chevrolet Lumina revealed a dent in the bumper. I wanted to ditch the vehicle or cover it with a tarp. What would anyone who saw it think? They’d know I’d hit something, and by the shape and size of the dent, probably a rock or an animal. Maybe no one would ask, but between machine components on the assembly line, I’d have to invent some story.

I opened the side door to the locker room, put on my smock and gloves, and stepped into the workshop. I was engulfed by an industrial music concert—the pounding and buzzing of assembly machines, the whir of conveyor belts and the cylinders that drove them. The fans, as big as a fifties TV set, spun their blades to a blur so we wouldn’t bake. I wove between groups of operators seated at their lines, heads tucked between their shoulders, backs hunched in purple smocks. Intent as watchmakers.

At the far end of the floor, I spotted my station and my empty stool. As if radar had warned him I’d arrived, Héctor glanced up from the piece he was handling and shot me one of his disdainful looks. I dropped onto the stool with a huff. My fingers took up the part that was coming down the line. The routine shackling me to this job would cancel out all thought, reducing me to a programmed robot.

“Thanks for dumping your parts on us for a while,” Héctor said.

“Any stabbing pains?” asked Christopher, smiling to my right.

“Vomiting,” I said.

“Feeling better?”

“If it happens again, I’ll run for the bathroom.”

“Thanks for the cake yesterday, by the way—because the supervisor threw you a surprise party.”

“I know,” I replied in a curt tone that said I was done talking about my birthday.

The parts rolled along the belt like bar patrons arriving by name. I knew which loose plastic bits fit together and how to connect each cable. This monotony stung like a rash. It didn’t matter who we were nor what we thought.

Opposite me, Héctor had lowered his olive-toned face, glossy black hair dangling in strands as his fingers worked a part. To my right, Christopher stood slack-jawed, arching his back into an inverted C. Did they feel this job demeaned them? Did they even have any dignity left to lose, or were they glad the steady flow of parts kept them occupied?

To fill the orders, we had to switch off our inner worlds, while our humanity peeled away like sand off skin after a day at the beach. We maintained a conspiracy of silence. We pretended this life was worth bearing, and we dreaded anyone’s saying otherwise out loud lest we dropped dead, the way a machine goes dark the moment you yank its power cord.

Over the next two hours, I stacked tension in my shoulders, arms, and hands. Sooner or later some muscle would lock up, rendering me unable to attach the pieces and cables.

When the break came, I shot up and crossed the workshop to the yard. I stepped out into the heat. As I turned toward the fence that separated us from the adjacent lot, a mosquito buzzed my ear, and I swatted at it.

I expected to find my trunk forced open, signs someone had wedged in a crowbar. Behind me, the workers were spilling out into the yard talking and laughing, so I avoided looking like I was policing my car—or hiding something. A mass of purple smocks crammed into the limited shady spots under the building’s eaves. The sunlight bathed the world in a piss-yellow glow, while the silhouettes of those sheltering workers looked like charcoal sketches.

Even though my hair was heating up, I needed to recharge. Being around so many people would drain me. I planted myself by the fence marking the yard’s boundary, among dry blades of grass shooting from the cracked earth. I took out my cigarette pack. Across the road, the desert spread flat for miles, but my dead eye made judging distance a struggle. A few roads slashed through that orange-cream land. The sun glittered on truck trailers and car bodies like Morse code. The earth, dust clouds, and tiny vehicles shimmered in the distance. Dozens of oil pumps dotted the dead expanse, getting sparser the farther they were, with no pattern I could decipher—like someone had just chosen random spots to drop those machines, convinced they’d suck out buried treasure. The gunk they drew up had financed half the local industry, and that struck me as a miracle.

The sun was roasting my face, and sweat seeped out as if I were being squeezed dry. Christopher, all lankiness and dragging heels, crossed the yard toward me. I blinked against the sun even through tinted lenses, and a wave of discomfort washed over me. He smiled like a puppy, stopped next to me, fanned himself, and tugged at the collar of his polo—buttoned all the way up—peeking out of his smock.

“It’s really hot out here, right?”

I wanted to say yeah, and if he didn’t like it he should join the workers whose silhouettes blurred in the shade, but I didn’t want to waste the energy. I shrugged and took a drag.

Héctor and John—or Joseph—appeared, heading our way. Their footsteps kicked up dust. Héctor’s gut jiggled with each step, and his thick mane glistened in the sun like a gasoline puddle. Next to him, John—or Joseph—walked with a springy gait, like he was on his way to a party. His torso curved along a crooked spine. The smock covered part of a white shirt that must have cost three times what mine did, and he’d popped its collar frat-boy style. His clothes hid the growths on his left shoulder. Past the rolled-up right sleeve, the arm looked like a botched experiment, covered in clusters and folds of rhinoceros-gray skin.

Up close, Héctor’s smock shoulders were sprinkled with dandruff, as if he’d darted outside in a brief snowstorm and hurried back in. He shot me the second type of look he always reserved for me, as if I were a pitbull whose mood concerned him; he hoped that if I decided to attack, I’d choose someone else’s throat.

Four evolutionary dead ends gathered in a miasma of sweat. Magnets glomming together, little circles of humanity where everyone had to save everyone else from boredom.

I avoided their eyes and focused on inhaling smoke to soothe my aggravation. If only I could flip a switch and go invisible. On breaks, I’d escape to some corner of the yard so no one could pin me down with their gaze, and I’d recharge the energy that these pauses allowed. My assigned coworkers would wonder where that one-eyed bastard had gone off to. Camouflaged like a predator in the jungle, I’d hear every nasty remark about me, each personal reason they found me disagreeable.

Héctor was rolling strands of tobacco in paper. He slid the paper between the stubs of his index and middle fingers, which looked like they’d emerged from the womb minus the first joint.

“Did you see last night’s Mavericks game?” John—or Joseph—said. “That alley-oop from Curry to Nowitzki?”

He looked at the three of us. Christopher, maybe embarrassed, shook his head.

“Seriously?” John—or Joseph—said. “None of you? Bunch of ignoramuses.”

He grinned at us as though he’d had his teeth bleached, but in reality they’d worn down in concave and diagonal shapes, enamel grayed or eroded to transparency. Too often the condition of a person’s teeth reflected the state of their mind.

As if John—or Joseph—had just insulted his entire family, Christopher rattled off teams and scores, plus names, presumably players. John—or Joseph—chimed in with stats and point totals while fidgeting with his right sleeve, that snagged on the lumps and folds of gray skin. Up close, his white shirt had clearly needed ironing for weeks.

The sun had me drenched, and my brain felt as though it were melting. My thoughts, swimming in a grimy fishbowl, barely let me lift the cigarette to my mouth. If something about that car gave me away, would I even notice? Next to that vacant lot, the trunk shone, and a few inches of shade fell across it in a rhomboid pattern. How hot must it be inside?

I wiped my forehead, the sweat sliding down my wrist, and patted my cheeks. I had to stay alert—a slip of a few seconds could haunt me the rest of my life.

Héctor nudged Christopher in the ribs as he watched a group of workers crossing the yard.

“Check it out. I ran into him on my way to the bathroom today, and for the third time he flat-out ignored me. Acted like I was invisible. Must think that used Camry he bought makes him better than us.” He craned his neck as if to shout at the group rounding the workshop corner, but kept the same volume. “Conceited bastard.”

Christopher was writing in the palm of his hand with a pen. Héctor frowned and leaned sideways to see.

“Does it matter that much?”

“I’ll forget if I don’t.”

“Do you remember to look at your hand for what you’re supposed to remember?”

“Sometimes.”

Héctor laughed out of one side of his mouth while the other corner gripped the cigarette.

“How’re you ever going to meet a woman? If you land a date, you’ll forget her name or where you’re meeting. Will you even remember you met her?”

Christopher swallowed, his thick Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He straightened, slipped the pen into a pocket of his smock, and managed a smile.

“She’ll have to be patient.”

Héctor shook his head while smiling like a boy who pelts rats with rocks and awards himself points for each kill. Christopher, instead of ignoring him or firing back, wiped away his dismay and hung on every word the man uttered, dancing to his tune in a tutu. Then again, that’s what other people were for: to vouch for your existence, even if only by making fun of you.

“By the way,” Héctor said, “I saw the supervisor carrying a bunch of résumés on her clipboard. She’s looking to fill the coordinator job.”

“The last coordinator started as an operator, didn’t he?” said John—or Joseph.

“That’s what I thought. So get used to the idea you’re talking to the next coordinator.”

“You want to be coordinator?” Christopher asked.

Héctor squinted at him and blew a smoke ring.

“If I said you’re talking to the next coordinator, and you’re talking to me, what do you think that means? Do I want the job or not?”

“You want it?”

“The pay’s better, and I’d get to improve the workshop’s routines. I don’t think anyone else has volunteered. I’ll seduce the supervisor—flatter her for a few days, pick up Starbucks on the way. A Caramel Frappuccino. I’ll tell her what I want, and she’ll take it into account.” He shook his head while surveying the oil-pump-strewn plain like a general sizing up his next conquest. “I’ll clean this place up, break people of their idiotic habits. Sleep like a baby.”

As I clamped the cigarette filter between my lips, I turned my sunglasses on Héctor before I could even think to hide my grimace. That man needed to sit on top even of a heap of shit. I wanted a shower—a cold jet of water to rinse away the sweat sliding down my back, chest, and legs, making my underwear stick.

“You don’t find it funny,” Héctor said.

In the distance, my car called me, demanding attention like a child wandering too close to the road.

“I asked you, Cyclops,” Héctor added.

He furrowed his brow, studying my face as if counting each pimple. What was I supposed to answer? Before I could muster the energy to part my chapped lips, Héctor went on.

“Oh, I forgot—no point talking to us.”

I held his stare drilling into my sunglasses. I took a drag to steady my pulse, to dissolve the image of pressing out my cigarette on his forehead. When I spoke, it was like scraping rust off a pipe.

“Half-truth.”

Author’s note: I wrote this novella about ten years ago. It’s contained in my collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

This part reminded me of dealing with the other disabled folks I met while attending that stupid course and being shown the workshops. Check the first entry of this tale for more details. I don’t miss it one bit. Although I’ve forgotten most of that experience (my neurological configuration is terrible at retaining memories), I’m fairly certain that all the workshop-related people in this story are made out of pieces of those I got to know, either there or at the center for autism. Héctor himself was based on a fella diagnosed with paranoid personality disorder, who kept railing on about autists among many others.

• Previous part (2)

I staggered out of the bedroom while pressing my temple to contain a throbbing headache, and from the dining table I was greeted by the sight of the duffel bag open and gutted, clots of blood around the zipper. T-shirts, pants, and the undergarments of my military uniform lay spread out across the table, rolled into cylinders and secured with elastic bands. Balls of socks. Razor blades and shaving lotion tucked into a plastic ziplock bag.

To distract myself, I opened the balcony door and stepped onto the two-foot ledge that served as a terrace. I leaned against the railing. Delivery vans were stirring the stillness, and a few sleepwalkers were getting into their cars on their way to work. The sky was so clear it seemed clouds existed only in someone’s imagination, so the air would stay mild until daybreak.

I rubbed my face. Before I drove to the workshop, I’d reserve a few measured minutes to breathe in that mix of desert air and traffic fumes.

The stretch of street on my left reminded me of the landscapes the Coyote would paint on a rock wall to catch the Road Runner. Past a winding path between trimmed lawns, a parking lot surrounded a beige, boxlike building housing a Mexican restaurant, and right next door stood a single-story Jack in the Box. Above their roofs rose a tall pillar, like a ruin missing the roof it once supported, showing the Chevron gas station logo. At the end of the road, the cars coming and going looked like grime on an old lens, blurring with the distant silhouettes of trees, one-story buildings, and billboards.

I had gotten to know this view the day I traveled to the city, was guaranteed a job at the workshop, and wandered around until I saw the vacancy sign in front of this apartment block. Such a backdrop convinced me that I lived in a solid world, but for all I knew, those cars and pedestrians that came and went may have vanished from existence as soon as they disappeared from sight. Sure, I’d grown familiar with the stretch leading from my apartment to the workshop, plus a few miles on the outskirts among the oil fields, but the rest of the world could have disappeared, erased into the void between planets.

I took a deep breath and returned to the living room. I dragged the duffel bag into the shower, soaked it under the spray, and scrubbed away the clotted blood. Diluted blood stained the rush of water flowing down the drain. When I was satisfied, I left the soaked bag in the sink. A trace of the stench of urine and excrement lingered in the fibers, woven into them.

I wandered around the living room. What had I left out of place yesterday for the future version of me, the one getting up in the morning, to deal with? The breakfast mug beside a spoon crusted with dried milk. The open box of cornflakes. On the other side of the counter I had stacked the three freezer drawers and the ice tray.

A chill went through my guts. I checked each drawer to see what food would go bad. A few boxes of instant noodles, steaks wrapped in plastic. Fortunately, my paycheck didn’t allow me to stock up on too many supplies. By tonight, after getting home from the workshop, I’d cook whatever my stomach could handle, and toss the rest in the garbage.

I washed the breakfast mug. I brought it along with the box of cereal to the dining table. I fetched cold milk from the fridge. As I poured cornflakes to fill the mug, the sound of that little cascade satisfied me like a dog hearing food rattle in its bowl. I splashed the milk in. Sitting there, lifting the spoon to my mouth, I lost any sense of actually having breakfast, and whenever I snapped out of it, my gaze was glued to the closed freezer door. The fridge’s hum called to me like a prayer echoing in a church. My insides rumbled, the milk tasted bitter. I left the mug by the sink.

Under a lukewarm shower, I braced my hands against the wall and blew away the water running over my mouth. I could call in and say I’d woken up sick. I could fake it. But no, I couldn’t. If any clue on that dirt road led the police to me and the very next day I, someone who never took vacation days, failed to show up at work, that would instantly label me a suspect. To survive until the boy disappeared, I had to stick to my routine. I’d endure the anxiety, the waves of chills threatening to rattle my spine, for the rest of today, Thursday, and Friday. Those forty-eight hours of the weekend were mine. I could travel without making excuses. I’d hide the body in some bushes and close this chapter as if the boy had never crossed paths with my car.

I walked around the bedroom looking for yesterday’s shirt, until I remembered I’d thrown it away. I put on a clean shirt. At the front door, before putting on my sunglasses, I fumbled with my key ring as I pictured what a cop would notice if he came in. Nothing among my small hoard of belongings hinted at a boy, and nobody would show up here for the rest of the week. I’d dodged that bullet. Until the weekend, my apartment would serve as a mausoleum. The boy would lie there, oblivious to the world of traffic and work baking in the sun.

I put on my glasses and headed downstairs. In the heat of dawn, I wanted to tug at my shirt collar to cool off. I took refuge behind the tinted lenses, which blocked other people’s stares the way a one-way mirror does in an interrogation room.

Traffic was still lined with cars and delivery vans. How would my coworkers see me over the course of the split shift? I had to act the same as always: the guy who keeps quiet, stays out on the periphery. But in my mind’s eye I saw myself sitting at my station on the line, hunched over another anonymous metal part, struggling to hide that I’d killed a child. During breaks, I’d hurry around the staircase leading to the supervisor’s office, avoiding her, and duck into the bathroom to take a deep breath. When we all went out to the yard, I’d huddle with the other workers—a colony of elephant seals—in the rectangle of shade under a small roof, to smoke while the sun roasted the tips of my sneakers, and my lungs filled with that superheated air smelling of dirt and metal. And the entire time I’d be anticipating the moment someone discovered the corpse packed away in my freezer.

For these three days, all my energy would be devoted to keeping that shield in place. The rest of the time, I’d be a vegetable.

My mind had dissolved, but suddenly I jolted upright behind the wheel as though my guts had turned to ice. I nearly rammed into the car ahead of me; the line had stopped at the sign before the intersection. I slammed on the brakes, and the tires squealed. Through the rearview mirror of the car ahead, the driver frowned, studying my reflection.

I clutched the steering wheel like I wanted to rip it off in one yank. Three days until the weekend. Yesterday was Monday, not Tuesday.

I grabbed my phone and held it over the wheel while I waited for traffic to move. I followed the line of cars. When I spotted an opening, I sped into a tight turn, arms twisting on the wheel, crossing into the opposite lane. The front right tire mounted the curb. When the car crashed back onto the asphalt, the suspension squeaked, and I jolted in the seat. A delivery van approaching from that lane laid on its horn.

I kept glancing between the road and my phone’s contact list until I found the landlord’s number. I called. It rang once.

“Who’s this?”

The man sounded like he’d barely turned his head toward his phone’s mic.

“This is Alan Kivi. You were coming to check on my apartment this morning, 3F. But I’m working from home and need to focus.”

“You’re not here.”

It was hard to think while driving. The landlord must already be in my apartment, and he sounded irritated, though not in the way someone would if they’d found a dead child.

“I stepped out for an errand. I’m on my way back.”

“We agreed on this time, a general inspection every Tuesday at 7:45. I have limited time for each unit.”

While he spoke, I parked in the first open spot outside my apartment block, jumped out of the car, and sprinted upstairs. My nostrils flared so I wouldn’t pant into the phone.

“Sorry, but something came up and I have to juggle it from home. My hours are tight too.”

I slid the key in the lock and flung the door open. I stepped inside while pressing my lips together so I didn’t exhale too loudly. My eyes swept over the fridge and the closed freezer, the stack of plastic drawers on the counter, the dirty mug and spoon in the sink, and on the dining table, the cylinders of army uniforms, the socks, and a plastic bag of toiletries. Standing to the right of the doorway, the landlord was facing me. A gaunt man in his forties, crow-black hair streaked with gray, wearing frameless glasses and sharply creased pants.

It reassured me that my sudden entrance startled him, the same way you might surprise someone who’s cleaning a room only to look up and see a stranger standing under the door frame with a hollow grin. I had hoped that the day I rented this place would be the only time I ever saw him. Whenever I moved out, if I survived this apartment, I’d slip a note and the key through his mailbox and vanish.

He tucked his phone away. As if to avert his gaze, he turned to the entryway cabinet, ran a finger over the dulled varnish, and rubbed that fingertip against his thumb.

“You could wipe things down once in a while,” he said. He tapped the cabinet, near a pile of dusty coins and old keys. “To prevent damage, you should gather your coins and stuff in a tray, just like you’d use coasters under your bottles.”

I shut the door behind me while trying to breathe through my nose. Sweat clung to the hair on my forearms in thick drops, and a vibration pounded in my skull, making it hard to think. I stepped between him and the kitchen area like I was absentminded.

“Sorry I didn’t let you know.”

He ventured deeper inside.

“I can inspect while you work. I won’t make a sound.”

“No, I really need to wrap this up before I head to my main job, and I can’t concentrate with someone moving around in the corner of my eye.”

He gave me a once-over. Like dozens of other people, he peered at my sunglasses, maybe thinking I was joking by wearing them indoors, maybe debating whether to ask me to take them off.

“I can’t come back this week.”

“The apartment will survive.”

He craned his neck over my shoulder to look at the stack of drawers on the counter.

“All that food is going to spoil. Is something wrong with your freezer?”

I wanted to grab him by the shirt and toss him out. I’d told him to leave, and he was still getting on my nerves. I worked hour after hour to afford a one-bedroom with a kitchenette carved out of the living room, and I had to put up with someone who wouldn’t go when asked. No privacy, no peace, even in the space I paid for.

“The freezer works. I was just cleaning it out. Really, I need to finish up and get back to the workshop.”

He pulled out his key ring, twirling it around his finger, and then his features twisted as if a sudden jolt hit him. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and massaged his temple.

“If you wanted to postpone the inspection, why didn’t you let me know?”

“I forgot, that’s all. There’s no mystery. I’m just disorganized. If my head worked better, I doubt we’d have ever met.”

He rubbed that circle on his temple and stared right through me. Maybe he was thinking of fitting my inspection into the rest of his week, or maybe he was waiting for some kind of bribe.

I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. I counted fifty dollars in two twenties and a ten, and held them out. Already I pictured the meals I’d be missing for the next few days.

“For your trouble.”

He glanced at the bills, and through those frameless lenses I watched his pupils widen. He took a step back and raised one hand like I’d just offered him a line of coke.

“No, no. Let’s just forget it. Tuesday next week, can I come then?”

“Same as always.”

“At the same time?”

“If it changes, I’ll let you know.”

He let his gaze slide away. He opened the apartment door, nodded a goodbye, and slipped into the hallway. I rushed over and peered through the peephole just in time to see him heading for the stairwell.

I slumped back against the door. While my pulse calmed, I mustered enough saliva to wet my mouth. My face, my wrists, my back all itched like spiders were scuttling across my skin. If the landlord had suspected I was lying, would I have noticed?

I limped to the bathroom. I tossed the damp duffel bag onto the floor and filled the sink with cold water. I plunged my face in up to my ears. The bubbles from my nose rolled across my cheeks, and the freezing sting dulled.

I pulled off my shirt and used a towel to dry my neck and chest. I scrubbed my armpits. I wanted to sit under the warm shower again, but every passing minute came off my shift at the workshop.

I paced the apartment. What else had I forgotten, which tiny clue would betray me? Today I’d been certain—just as certain as I knew I’d woken up here, just as certain as I’d known where to find a clean shirt—that it was Wednesday. I would have shown up at the workshop like any other Wednesday, until a line of cop cars parked outside and the officers swarmed in to arrest me. While they handcuffed me and pushed my head down into the back seat, I’d wonder how they found out.

I needed to keep a shield even against my own mind, my own impressions. I had to double-check every fact in case this broken brain was trying to sabotage me.

I collapsed onto the moth-eaten wreck of a couch and propped my elbows on my thighs. I’d call work. I remembered the way my supervisor smiled, as if chasing off the darkness of the world, and I heard the echo of her tone with us, the same one she’d use with a baby or a drooling old man. I dialed her number. She picked up.

“I was surprised you weren’t here. Are you okay?”

Instead of faking coughs, degrading myself with that performance, I tried to keep my voice free of anxiety.

“I woke up nauseous, and threw up. I think it’s been coming on for a couple days.”

“That why you disappeared yesterday?”

“When?”

“We got together to celebrate your birthday. A surprise. But you vanished. I called your cell a few times in case you were still around.”

She’d pry some excuse out of me, like I’d asked for a party in my honor.

“I barely use my phone. Whenever I need it, the battery’s dead. Sorry.” I cut her off before she scolded me about my phone habits. “But yes, I’ve been feeling sick for days. I figured I’d rather throw up at home.”

“Too bad,” she said, half-playful, half-scolding. I pictured her pouting her lower lip. “I bought a chocolate-pecan cake. A shame you missed it. Your coworkers devoured it, but at least they’re grateful to you.”

She paused, waiting for me to thank her. Nobody had asked her to plan that ambush. What about me, or my behavior, made her think I wanted her to gather a bunch of people I barely tolerated so they could shine a spotlight on some personal milestone I hadn’t mentioned? In her world, as she looked over her minions from that big window in her office, maybe she saw us all as identical little cogs, each with a slightly different face.

She let ten seconds of silence pass.

“If you need to, stay home. If you feel better in the morning, come in. I’m sure your coworkers can manage one day without you.”

“No, I was calling to say that although I’m running late, I’ll be there soon. Throwing up cleared my head, and I took some medicine.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’ll see me at my station in a little while.”

We said our goodbyes. I hung up, removed my sunglasses, and buried my face in my hands. I stifled a groan. My animal self must have sensed a threat before my rational mind did, and as much as I wanted to shut down, I had to brace for an impending assault. My head was pounding. I stood up and looked at the closed freezer door. The landlord had said he’d be back next week, but could I risk believing him? Maybe I had annoyed him enough that he’d pop in unannounced another morning this week, claiming he had a gap in his schedule. Meanwhile I’d be on the line at the workshop, assembling one piece after another, and during each break I’d dread seeing flashing red-and-blue lights reflected in the windows.

I went to the bathroom and lifted the duffel bag. Water dripped into the puddle around my feet. I dried the bag off with a hair dryer and set it down, open, a few paces from the freezer. I waited, crouched in front of that closed door, as though some chemical shift in my brain might ready me for what lay inside. As much as I wanted to bury the boy in there and forget him, I had to keep him near, under lock and key, a key I carried in my pocket.

I opened the door and let the cold air wash over me. Part of me wanted to revel in the chill a moment, to clear my head, but inside, among the frosted walls, sat the plastic-wrapped package whitened by ice. Taut plastic forced the body into the shape of a Thanksgiving turkey, folded and compressed, the boy’s back and buttocks bruised purple. The soles of his feet. Around his torso, a band of skin as wide as a tire had turned black with necrosis, and on the back of his head, among thinning hair, a gash revealed a mass of blood and tissue—like an egg cracked open and left to rot.

Author’s note: this novella was originally written by someone I have to assume was me, about ten years ago. It’s contained in the collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho.

• Next part (2)

The conveyor belt slid the next metal piece into the field of vision my tinted lenses cast in gray. My gloved hands hooked the cable pins into their holes and verified that no previous operator had ruined the work, while I measured my movements to prevent any later operator from blaming me for holding up the line. I pressed the button that ran the belt. The piece slid off to my right, lurching forward and stopping like a car stuck in traffic.

I rested my gloved fists on the edge of the table. The conveyor belt whirred, its segments blurring past. I already knew the shape of the piece that would stop at the center of my vision a few seconds later.

Seated across from me, Héctor yawned, warping that bray into an announcement that he needed to take a leak. Someone stopped the belt. A metal piece was left stranded halfway between Héctor and me.

The familiar sequence of motions for assembling each piece sedated my mind, dimming it to black, but now my thoughts were stirring awake. How long would Héctor take in the bathroom? Sweat had slimed my forehead and neck, and my underwear clung like a soaked pad, even though the air-conditioning units hanging from the workshop walls droned on tirelessly—our only defense against stewing inside this metal sarcophagus.

Christopher, seated ten feet to my right, stretched his neck to look around at the other crews. The jagged, arched scar on his scalp stood out pink against his brown skin. For the hundredth time, I pictured a surgeon pressing a stapler to Christopher’s skull until it clicked, branding both sides of the seam with jutting, pointed ridges—a zipper of scarred flesh.

“How strange that the coordinator’s absent,” the man said.

John, or Joseph—whatever his name was—ambled behind Christopher to stretch his legs. He rolled the sleeves of his coat up to his elbows, but the right sleeve got stuck on the gray, bulbous growths that deformed that arm. His genes had gotten mixed up, producing enough skin and flesh for three people.

“He quit a couple of months ago.”

Christopher hunched over, frowning as if thinking hurt. He toyed with the raised seam that cut across the side of his head.

“I knew that, right?”

“It’s no big deal.”

Three minutes later, heavy footsteps announced Héctor’s return from the bathroom. He circled the worktable, dropped onto his stool, and pressed the button that got the conveyor belt moving again.

A metal piece halted in front of me, its black cables overlapping and crisscrossing like arm hair. I checked every connection. I unhooked a couple of cables Héctor had misplaced, and fastened them into different slots. One day, they would invent robots to replace us.

Forty-three minutes before the shift ended, the conveyor belt stopped, jamming pieces at intervals between the operators. I waited, slouching, letting my gaze relax on the sections of belt in front of me. The next piece should have arrived by then.

To my right, Christopher glanced over at me, checking if I was the one holding things up, but across from me Héctor had slumped forward, resting his chin on his chest. The black-haired jowl bulged out. He had closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and tangled his gloved fingers in some cables on the piece he’d been working on. His black Queens of the Stone Age T-shirt, printed with a horned hand, had ridden up over his belly, and through the gap between shirt and pants peeked a swarthy fold of flab dotted with bristling hair.

When the horn signaling the end of the workday blared through the workshop, I sprang up and walked around Christopher toward the locker room, but he tapped me on the shoulder.

“See you later.”

I went on with my eyes locked on the locker-room door as workers filed in, opening and closing it behind them. The smell of hot rubber and metal stung my nostrils. What did he mean by “see you later”? Had he made up some plan for after work?

By the time I walked into the locker room, my pulse was shaky. After opening my locker, I took off my coat, folded it, and tossed it inside. I grabbed my pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and slipped it into my shirt pocket. It was hard not to light up right there, but at least I’d finished another shift, scratched another mark on the wall, and I was about to claim the rest of the day for myself.

An electronic crackle buzzed. Everyone in the locker room turned toward the loudspeaker mounted in the corner.

“Alan Kivi, to the supervisor’s office, please,” a singsong female voice said.

I froze with one glove halfway off. What did she want? What had I done? I tossed the gloves on top of my coat and locked the locker. Coat and gloves put away, locker locked—my excuse to refuse overtime.

Shaking my head, I opened the door from the locker room to the workshop. In the supervisor’s office window, which rose above the shop floor like a second story, the glass blurred the figures of the four people gathered. Even though Christopher’s neck was hunched and his shoulders slumped, he still stood a head and a half taller than the others. The thick, barrel-shaped outline of Héctor fiddled with his phone. The supervisor, her hair down to her shoulders, leaned in close to each worker and touched them. She reached across the desk and lit the candles of a cake with a lighter.

I froze beneath the locker-room doorway. An operator from another team stopped in front of me and gave me a look, wanting to go inside, but before he could say anything, I stepped back. I paced in front of my locker. I fished around one pants pocket until I found my keys, and I fiddled with the cigarette filter in my shirt pocket as if I could sneak a drag.

How had the supervisor found out? If she noted my birth date when she hired me, she would have ambushed me last year to celebrate. In these past few days, she must have pulled my file, run her honey-coated fingers over it, and spotted the day I was born. I shuddered like someone who’s realized, while sitting on a public toilet, there’s a camera filming. Any private detail of my life worked like a tail sprouting from my coccyx for them to grab and hold me in place.

I hurried to the door leading out to the yard. I stepped into the dense, overheated air that smelled of scorched earth and traffic. I was heading for my car alongside the dispersing workers, but Caroline distracted me like a neon sign.

She was standing on tiptoe, bent over into a waste container. When she straightened, she was holding a plastic valve-shaped part with a cracked casing. She turned the piece over in her fingers, her lips moving as though greeting it. Her chestnut hair, tumbling halfway down her back, had frizzed the way it does on a day that threatens a storm. Beneath her bangs and between the strands framing her face, her skin was tanned like someone who labors under the sun. The floral pattern on her white dress had faded. It suggested that in the seventies it had belonged to some collection, only to be abandoned at a flea market. Her pockets bulged with broken machine parts, lost keys, odd stones she salvaged from dumpsters, ditches, landfills. Even from ten yards away, I noticed that horizontal tears had ripped open the dress’s sides and the flare of the skirt, as if Caroline had snagged them on bushes. Her cheeks were puffy and flushed. Her eyes, slanted and alien, glistened wet. Either allergies were hitting her, or she was stockpiling tears for the next time she burst into sobs.

While the sun pounded my forehead as though I’d pressed it against a light bulb, I slowed my pace to keep Caroline in sight through the stream of workers leaving the lot. She might have believed herself invisible, and the way everyone else ignored her only reinforced that notion. Caroline drifted around the waste container as if floating there—a specter that once lived in the house torn down to make room for the workshop. You’d expect a cold breeze to precede her, and I was surprised no one paid attention as they might if a dinosaur appeared out of a primeval jungle.

One of my coworkers—or the supervisor—might come looking for me. I reached my Chevrolet Lumina, but the moment I dropped into the driver’s seat and shut the door, I’d trapped myself in a sauna. A mistake I made every three or four days. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out to breathe while the seat roasted my backside through my pants and underwear. The air inflating my lungs coated their lining with the smell of overheated plastic.

I started the engine amid sputters and a gust of smoke. Once the dashboard lighter heated up, I lit a cigarette, drew on the filter, and blew the smoke out the window into the scorching air. The engine rattled phlegmatically as it accelerated toward the city center. Hanging from the rearview mirror, my vial filled with bits of shrapnel shivered while it spun.

On my left whizzed low-slung shops and single-story offices—white-painted corrugated metal walls that flashed under the sun, forcing me to squint behind my tinted lenses. On my right stretched the flat, orange-tinged desert, dotted with a few scraggly shrubs. Against a heat-warped horizon stood miniature telephone poles. Soon, the hunched silhouettes of oil pumps appeared, nodding like hammers in slow motion, their gears groaning and creaking—a herd of elephants drinking from the cracked earth. The desert’s immensity shrank the buildings, roads, and cars to dusty specks scorched by the sun.

Another year of this boiling air, of these people.

As I reached the city, I waited at a red light for ghosts to cross. A few yards ahead, a child crouched at the curb with a bored expression, pressing the tip of a metal rod against a flattened explosion of entrails and white-and-gray feathers smeared on the pavement.

Traffic thickened. Pedestrians roamed the sidewalks. I drove on to an In-N-Out Burger and joined the line of cars. Lounging against the seat, I smoked while the sunset sun beating through the windshield heated my face and hands.

A group of office workers in white shirts and dress pants walked by on the sidewalk. They followed one another like ducks. They had cloned each other’s hairstyles and that look of fatigue and resignation. A father carried his daughter on his shoulders, held his son’s hand, and used his other hand to grip a bulging bag. Next to him, a woman talked as she pointed to the end of the street. The man’s mouth hung half-open, and his features were weighed down by a week’s worth of exhaustion.

On the adjacent sidewalk, two groups of thirty-somethings ran into each other. Half the men wore Dallas Cowboys shirts or caps. I could have dubbed in real time exactly how they greeted each other and the small talk they exchanged. I could have predicted a split second early how their heads would nod, how wide their smiles would stretch. At some mention of where they were headed, someone in the other group laughed as if at a joke. There was only one group of thirty-somethings in hundreds, maybe thousands of miles around, even if they tried to fool me by changing outfits and bodies.

Did those people see their choices the way I recognized them? Their lives resembled museum galleries. They chose which corridor to walk down or linger in, while I wandered inside a cage. A prisoner locked up for decades in a six-by-eight cell, a person whose name got lost during a staff turnover—none of the new employees had bothered to learn his name or find out when to set him free.

Yet in the faces of those passersby—businessmen, office workers, families, couples—and in the faces reflected in the mirrors of the cars waiting in line for takeout, I recognized exhaustion. They had resigned themselves to the road they ended up on, knowing that if they dared veer onto a different path, they might land in a dead end. Other routines, other partners, other children.

What could anyone want of humanity and the systems that chained them? To deal with other people, to sacrifice their days working—just to start a family, spit out offspring, save for retirement? Those goals satisfied the ghosts around me. But if the emptiness, the desolation, and the lack of meaning in each maneuver to wade through these societies nagged daily like a dislocated joint, what was there left to do?

Author’s note: this novella was originally self-published in Spanish in a collection titled Los dominios del emperador búho, about ten years ago.

Today’s song is Modest Mouse’s “Custom Concern.”

I feel like I need to explain myself for this one. First of all, I had completely forgotten about every single detail of this story so far. It was like reading it for the first time. As I read some parts, I did get some faint recollection of having “seen” them before, but I don’t remember having come up with nor designed those characters. This story was very personal for me, and perhaps that’s why I haven’t revisited it even in my mind, as it closed a period of my life I’d rather forget.

You see, I was diagnosed as autistic when I was 26 years old or so. That came after a few failed jobs that proved I couldn’t work a regular job due to my autism-related peculiarities. So when I got diagnosed, I had hit rock bottom, and I didn’t see myself adjusting to society at all. I lived like a recluse, the pee-in-bottles kind, except for my therapy sessions and the group meetings with other adults on the spectrum (I ended up leaving those group meetings, ironically, because one of the psychs, a thirty-year-old woman, was overtly hitting on me). A local organization offered me to take part in a course to help disabled people rejoin society and get hired.

Because most social workers are apparently retarded themselves (I swear I’ve never met any of them I could respect) and into the whole “everyone is equal” shit, they lumped together people with intellectual, social, and physical disabilities. We had people whose limbs didn’t work right having to be told how to talk with an interviewer in a way that a Down Syndrome fella would comprehend. People with social disabilities such as mine weren’t particularly tolerated either; a few of the disabled there, one diagnosed with paranoia and persecution syndrome or some shit like that, and another with fetal alcohol syndrome due to what a bastard her mother was, kept railing about some autistic guy at their workshop, and how autistic people were this and that. I didn’t interact much with them, but at least I got some sense of satisfaction when we “had” to reveal our disabilities and they realized that the guy whose disability they have kept shitting on every day heard it all.

You see, one of the things that bother me the most about the imposed public perception of disabled people, and I mean from the moderately disabled (among which I include myself; I’m 52% disabled) to the hyper disabled that you only see in such centers, is that social workers and such pests have forced a vision onto society that disabled people are all so resilient and understanding and kind to others because they endure such trauma and discrimination. Well, plenty of the people I met there were fucking bastards. Some real nasty ones too. There are details that I decided not to include in this story because it would seem like I was insulting people with such disabilities, even though it actually happened; for example, a Down Syndrome guy routinely waltzed over to groups, ripped the loudest farts, and casually left. Another guy kept calling everyone a faggot. Someone else seemed to be converting to Islam, and regularly claimed that priests and such ought to be killed. It wasn’t particularly surprising that some of the particularly vulnerable disabled would convert, because the fucking moronic social workers put illegals with a jihadist mindset among genuinely disabled people, under the category of “risk of exclusion,” as if wanting to conquer this country for their religion was a disability. Is it really a wonder that I was regularly enraged?

Anyway, that organization showed me a workshop similar to the one featured in this story, an offered me to work there. But I couldn’t due to the extreme noise, my intestinal issues, and other stuff. I did learn plenty about how they experienced that life, though, and it resulted in this story. Whatever good it did.

Anyway, I dare you to enjoy it if you can.