Carl the Death Driver / Ch-1 / Pt-3

Carl went with his normal morning routine and made every effort to dodge the reality of a spiking pain in his head and the unrelenting sour feeling in his gut. Looking up and down while brushing his teeth added the revelation that dizziness was also upon him. Carl found some relief with splashes of cold water to his face. Over and over, he cupped as much tap water as his two hands could hold and vigorously slapped the cool liquid up towards his face. Hoping for a reprieve from pain, Carl did realize brief moments of clarity. He grasped the porcelain sink and bowed his head at the altar of his bathroom while the medicine cabinet mirror solemnly reflected his struggle with watchful care. Concentrating on the interior of the sink, he studied a large triangular chip surrounded by an otherwise smooth white finish. Carl found himself fixated on the barely legible brand name atop the tarnished drain stopper. He took shallow breaths into his chest and exhaled the name, “American Standard.” And again, “American Standard.” This was his mantra meditation. This was his temporary moment of self-healing to cut through the pain and make his way downstairs to feed the fish and try to gain focus with the fresh brewed coffee awaiting his pour.

Blessed to have no knowledge of the limited time he was operating within, Carl went about his Saturday with the confidence of many hundreds of Saturdays to come. He fought through the balancing act of navigating down narrow stairs with a shaky handrail. A simple breakfast pairing of sharp white cheddar slices atop stale stoned wheat crackers and a large mug of coffee drenched with powdered creamer. Carl couldn’t muster the energy to reach for a plate or utensils and didn’t dare take a seat. His head hurt less in the standing position. Less blood was flowing to the capillaries of Carl’s face and he looked pale with eyes watering. Eating his food off the tile counter, Carl stared into the blue flames of the four-burner gas range. The front burners were set on high to keep Carl warm where the wall vents were inadequate and only offered a narrow stream of heat. A wisp of steady air flowed from the mail slot of the front door down the hallway to the kitchen. Over and over, the flames oscillated and dipped in a hypnotic dance and then steadied once again. The house shuddered with a blast of warm wind from the east scraping debris against the home’s exterior. There’s a faint sound of corroded gutters squeaking and holding on tight with a patchwork of surviving brackets. An outdoor trash container blows over and launches a large pickle jar toward the detached garage out back. Carl’s body twitches with the shattering of glass against the hollow aluminum panels of the garage door.

Carl’s condition and the threatening dry desert winds descending from the interior of the state kickstart his desire to push back. His stubborn streak awakens with the liquid infusion of a fourth cup of coffee. There’s a backlog of tinkering to be done in the one-man band skunkworks of his disheveled dining room workshop. Afternoon through late evening, Carl tested and toyed with circuits, remotes, and firmware. He endlessly queried his many AI agents. Some of his personalized digital assistants were fine-tuned to his innovative pursuits and others modified for Carl’s seemingly aimless research. He methodically extracts notes from the answers and creates meticulous instructions for planned steps to come. Then, he begins to cycle through this learning and planning process once again with branches of questions that progressively build upon information gleaned.

A short dinner break to eat cold leftovers from the refrigerator and then Carl was back at his work bench. He never made it upstairs that night. Carl surrendered to exhaustion on his musty recliner in the den. As he dozed, hallucinating that he was still in the other room typing away at his workstation and performing tasks, he would become momentarily lucid and tell himself that he’d get back to it after a brief rest. The old easy chair enveloped him for the duration and the proposed brief rest was only a delusion that transcended the balance of darkness. His lower back would suffer through the night, but the nausea and headache had subsided with the excitement of developing possible solutions to impossible ideas.

Johann Sebastian Bach was the featured artist of the morning on KUSC. Carl awoke to the thirty-ninth movement of St. Matthew Passion. His fingers tingled as his thumb brushed the buttery chocolate brown leather of his makeshift resting spot. His lower torso felt fused to the crease of the cushion. His mind slowly worked through a series of maneuvers that would free his body from the furniture. Tactile sensations returned to his sleepy feet through the act of standing. He shuffled into the hallway, expecting his regular warm embrace of burning coffee in the carafe. Carl had been remiss in his regular routine of clean up time before bed along with the preparation of filter and grinds. Entering the kitchen, a thin layer of garlic floated above the sink and offered temporary amnesty to Carl’s waning sense of smell. His eyes fixed upon unrinsed containers with withering bits of beans and leftover cheese surrounded by crumbs and crumpled plastic food wrap. Two flies rested on the cheese. Where they came from and how they came to stake their claim would remain an unsolved mystery.