The Fridge

 The wake was a quiet affair. The only people that came were John, his sister Margot, and one of his mother’s friends from the nursing home. She used to have more, but at 82 she had more friends that were dead than alive. John hovered around the back of the room as they all paid their respects. His mother’s friend, possibly named Susan, was hunched over in the pew and slowly rocking herself back and forth. Her mother was probably the last of her friends. Whenever he saw an adult cry he still felt like a little boy peeking through the curtain. Margot, predictably, wasn't crying. She was respectful as always but she looked vacant. John had only seen her cry once in his life; it was when her pet lizard, procured from the backyard, died. The whole ordeal was her first and last great loss. 

At some point, John could no longer hide in the back of the church, and it came time for him to approach the casket. Unfortunately, his mom requested an open casket. No matter how much makeup and stuffing the mortician put into her, she still looked dead. The pennies they put on her eyes certainly didn’t help. Her skin had a waxy sheen to it. It felt like he was looking at a taxidermied stranger, not his mom. The only other funeral he’d been to was his grandpa’s when he was eight. As a child his main focus was trying to catch him playing dead. He would pretend to be praying and squint the over chairs to see if he was still breathing. Even now, he would catch himself unconsciously checking if his mom was alive. Maybe if he looked away long enough she’d just get out of the coffin and start nagging him about his untucked shirt. 

Eventually, the ceremony dragged to its end and it was time for her to be lowered into the ground. As soon as John exited the church he mourned the loss of air conditioning. It was fall, yet the heat was still unbearable. The plot Margot chose was next to Grandpa’s, which he doubts their mom would’ve been happy about. He’s probably already started berating her in the afterlife. They used this ominous mechanical stretcher to move her, like she was a piece of cargo. He watched the remainder of the ceremony, listening to the priest say a series of prayers that truly meant nothing to him. All he could think about was how this heat would turn that coffin into a furnace, how his mother’s blood would be boiling, how maggots would burrow under her skin, and how she would bake from the inside out. 

John had to go to work the next day, which was truly unfortunate. Apparently his boss’s empathy towards a loss in the family only lasts a day. His official job was as a cashier, but he was also expected to simultaneously be a fry cook and answer the drive through. He felt grease seep into his shoes as he dealt with possibly the most annoying woman he has ever met. 

“I found a hair in my fries! What kind of unsanitary place is this?” She just kept going on and on. 

Objectively, he can agree that this place is disgusting and he’d probably get salmonella from the chicken, but as a proud employee of this fine establishment, he was close to making a very poor choice.

“I’m sorry ma'am, how about I get you some fresh fries?” He really needed this job. She bargained for another burger too, before John finally tracked down his manager and left her in his hands. Other than the annoying customers, he enjoyed the routine of the line. It gave him something to do at least.

On the way home from work he was feeling particularly lethargic. He dragged his feet as he walked, and the air felt like he was swimming through mud. The apartment waiting for him wasn’t much to speak of. It was a studio, with creaky pipes and a white fridge. Growing up he had one of those silver fridges with a built in water filter. As a kid he used to spend hours just playing with it. He would crack it open and try to keep the lights off. The white fridge just wasn’t the same. It smelled like mildew and only contained condiments and bubbly water. John poured himself some instant coffee and scrubbed the fridge with bleach till his fingers burned.

John rode the city bus to work. The whole thing smelled like a mix of cigarettes and weed, but the man sitting next to him was exuding it. He was not part of the usual group riding the morning transit. He was wearing rose tinted glasses, a fur lined coat, and his salt and pepper beard was quite long, to the point where it was off putting, though it was surprisingly well groomed, as were his fingernails. He was eating a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup. It was John’s favorite food as a kid, and the salty scent had him gravitating ever so slightly closer. As the bus ride went on, the smell just got stronger and stronger, and when the man got off at his stop, John followed. 

It was like an invisible string was leading him. The man continued on as if he were on a morning stroll; he didn’t even glance back and John stumbled behind him. He came to a stop in front of a dank alleyway. There was an iron fence blocking the entrance, and there was about two inches between the bars. Despite this, the bearded man just slipped through the opening, dragging John right along with him. John was trying to fight the pull, but it felt like if we were to stop at any point, his heart would be ripped clean out. As they walked through the alleyway it seemed to almost warp. It was getting increasingly narrow the farther they went. John felt the walls pressing into him on both sides, and his breath was becoming erratic. He had never thought himself to be claustrophobic, but if he wasn’t before he definitely was now. It was like getting thrown into a trash compactor. He was being pressed into nothing.

John was hoping to open his eyes and hear the subtle beep of a heart monitor, maybe he’d even have a hospital gown on. Unfortunately all he could see is himself, and he’s still wearing an obnoxious fast food uniform. The walls and floors looked like they were painted pitch black. He would’ve thought the lights were out, if he wasn’t lit up like a fluorescent bulb. He scanned the room for the soup man, but he was entirely alone. Silence would be too generous of a word. There was a complete absence of sound. He couldn’t even hear himself breathe.

He paced around the box, so to speak, for what must’ve been hours. The panic of it all was setting in and the more philosophical questions started circulating. Maybe that old man killed him in that alleyway. John wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up in Hell. Eternal peace wouldn’t be possible for him. He saw the first sign of movement out of the corner of his eye, and as he got closer a silhouette started forming. John would recognize that ridiculous beard anywhere. He still couldn’t exactly see the man, but his shape moved closer, and put something over his eyes. They felt like a pair of sunglasses. The second they sat on his nose bridge, the world burst into motion. A bustling city surrounded them. It looked like a child drew their idea of New York City. The brightly colored buildings were shaped in ways that defied physics. John almost forgot about the man next to him, before he felt a large hand clap him on the back.

“Sorry about the wait, son. I had to find a spare, but then my cat got stuck in my fridge, and you know how that goes!” 

John stared at him blankly for a few seconds, before he inevitably started hyperventilating. He’s never been very good at emotional control, so all his words came in a garbled bunch. They ranged from demanding to know where he is, cursing at the man, cursing at the man’s mother, and threatening to kill his cat. 

“I understand your displeasure at the situation, but going after my mother and my cat? Now that's just uncalled for. My name is Tim Waylard thank you very much, and where we are is two blocks from my house.”

“That’s not what I asked and you know it.”

“Well I can give you exact coordinates if you’d like–”

A loud honk interrupted him, and John finally realized that they were standing in the middle of an intersection, with a huge truck barreling towards them. He grabbed Tim’s arm and started booking it towards the sidewalk. 

“What are you doing? Don’t you know pedestrians have the right of way?” Tim asked innocently.

“God, just shut up.”

When they finally made it to safety, there wasn’t much else John could do but follow Tim. He caught a look at his appearance in the reflection of a puddle and audibly winced. He had huge heart shaped sunglasses on, and his uniform somehow looked even more garish. It’s no wonder that man didn’t take him seriously. He considered taking them off, before he remembered that silence and that darkness. Even he could sacrifice his pride to avoid that.

They made it to Tim’s house, which had a hundred and a half code violations. It looked like something out of the 1800s, and was thrown haphazardly in between two office buildings. 

“Home sweet home,” remarked Tim, “Be careful on the fifth step, it has a little give.” By give he apparently meant rot, as John’s foot broke the step right in half. The inside was somehow even worse. The floor was completely covered in books, little statues, and just plain junk. John had to hop through the precariously stacked items in order to make it to Tim’s dining room. They sat face to face at the large table. Tim was reaching for the box of doughnuts that had been sitting out for God knows how long. 

“Are you going to actually tell me what's going on now?” John asked plaintively. 

“John Boy it’s exceedingly rude to tell a story on an empty stomach, don’t you know? There’s no need to rush,” Tim said all this with a mouth full of doughnuts. John just glowered. Tim sighed and his face looked serious for once.

“Well this may be a bit much for you so try to keep up. To dumb it down, have you ever wondered what happened if something kept being compressed? The universal belief is that solids have a definite shape, but with enough pressure that form can change. Humans are no different. Where we are is the result of being compressed to the point of ‘nothing.’ Space and time are like water, and not nearly as rigid as people let on. We are not limited to one plane of living.”

John was painfully out of his depth. Tim’s words went straight over his head. In any other circumstance, John would deem this the ramblings of a crazy hoarder, but to say that would be calling himself crazy as well.

“Well why am I here? And what's with the weird sunglasses?”

“Those cones and rods in your little eyes aren't designed for different planes. These weird glasses are what let you see all this. Without them, you can only process that dark space I left you in, the Absence. I thought that name was pretty clever. As to why you are here? I don’t fully understand myself. You followed and somehow came. I was born in this plane, so I can only stay in yours for about an hour before things start to get iffy. Yet you’ve been here over an hour and seem fine so far.”

“Blah Blah, can you or can you not get me out of here?”

“Mmm well…That's easier said than done.” John kept expecting him to elaborate but of course he didn’t. It became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything useful, so he snatched the doughnut out of Tim’s hand and started stomping out, with full intent of knocking over stacks of books on his way. However, Tim grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and yanked him back. He was disconcertingly strong, giving John whiplash. He dragged him up the stairs like he was a ragdoll. When they got to the top, Tim ushered him into a small room. John hated how quickly he was able to turn the tables on him. The feeling of weakness was constantly grating on him. The room he was locked into was eerily familiar. After just a few seconds of rumination he recognized it as his childhood bedroom. There was a twin bed with astronaut sheets sitting in the corner. There were old stickers engraved on the walls, the dresser, and every other available surface. It was messy, even a little smelly. On the bedside table there was a bottle of medication for his constant ear infections as a kid. A fuzzy rug was at the foot of the bed, though it was not so fuzzy anymore, with the tiny bits of life stuck in it. Most importantly there was a wooden chair next to his bed; where mom would read him stories and tuck him in. She stopped doing it by 5th grade, but he doesn’t remember ever asking her to stop. 

John stared at the chair till his vision blurred, and then stared some more till tiny purple dots scattered across his vision. It got to the point where he couldn’t see anything but the faint outline of the chair. He walked blindly towards the bed and went under the covers. He briefly thought about how his mother would react to his shoes on the bed, so he kicked them off. He wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders. As he drifted to sleep he heard the low hum of her voice. She was whispering a familiar song but he’d forgotten the name by then. He laid there for a long time. He stayed perfectly still, even when pins and needles started traveling up his arms, even when moisture began to leak from his eyes. Anything to make sure she didn’t stop humming. 

After a certain point, he could feel a chill creep over his skin. As he cracked his eyes open he was blinded by white. His vision was spotty, but he was inside some kind of freezer, considering the bottle of ketchup crammed in next to him. He pushed forward, much harder than he needed too, and fell face first onto the floor. The cool linoleum was familiar under his hands. When he looked up, his grimy apartment surrounded him.