Carl the Death Driver / Chapter 1

Carl died on a Sunday. His time of death was 12:55pm. Manner of death appeared to be natural causes. Carl’s last act took place in the kitchen of his modest two-bedroom home. In the moments before he expired, Carl sat at his kitchen table in the dining nook that looked out upon a narrow backyard surrounded by a worn and tired chain-link fence.

During his last shallow and labored breaths, his body lay splayed on its side between a pealing polka-dot-covered wall and an old wood table with chewed up legs from a dog that passed away many years ago. A stained picture window above streamed bands of dancing light across his static form. Carl’s left arm was pinned beneath his twisted torso and his legs came to rest awkwardly with his right foot entangled in the wooden stretchers of his fallen armchair. A faint pulse echoed the last pumping motion of his heart’s chambers, and then even that last imperceptible sign of life was gone.

The old linoleum flooring surrounding Carl’s body held a thin volume of spreading water. Clear liquid slowly infused with reddish-brown ribbons transforming into thinner threads and plumes of dissolving pink. Over two dozen tiny freshwater fish convulsed and gasped across the thin layer of liquid. Algae coated gravel covered the right side of Carl’s face. The gravel was arranged in slimy clumps held together by remnants of aquatic plant fibers. Carl’s collared blue flannel shirt grew damp soaking up the dirty tank water that sustained life only a moment before. The remains of a twenty-gallon glass aquarium still held some water with a lone fish trapped in one corner of the rectangular showcase that came to rest upon Carl’s neck. Almost void of all water, the weight of the aquarium was still significant, and it flattened the flesh it sat upon. The tank’s low-profile LED hood, filtration system, and suction cup thermostat lay scattered and broken across the floor. Slamming into the side of the tank from an approximate distance of two feet and moving at a speed of just under 20mph, the left frontal bone of Carl’s head only shattered one side of the tank. At the moment of impact, he was not clinically dead. The spectacular collision of Carl’s skull with his peaceful aquarium full of fish and small plant life was the result of gravity when something gave way.

Beyond the momentary chaos of Carl’s body struggling to sustain life and the scattered mess of his final fall, Carl’s grey-blue stucco home continued to hum along with normal efficiency. From the outside, it maintained the appearance of an occupied residence in a small California community. The autumn afternoon sun moved further west dragging the shadow of a large Ponderosa Pine across the tar and gravel roof of Carl’s home. The den with windows facing east was lit with a corner floor lamp and two table lamps on either side of a dated love seat that featured a large wine stain on the left armrest. The three lamps were typically triggered when Carl entered the room but defaulted to automatically turn on at 5:15pm each day with a shutoff set for 1:00am.

The formal dining room had been converted to a workshop where Carl tinkered and fixed things throughout each day. The room was cluttered and challenging to move through. The parquet floors were chipped and missing slats among the varied shades of interlocking teak wood. Dust and grime were in abundance and revealed Carl’s many paths around the encumbered space. At one end, against a wall adjacent to a small pantry hallway leading to the kitchen, stood a marble top buffet. This hand-crafted piece of furniture was orphaned many decades past, displaced from a matching dining room set acquired in an estate sale. Carl stored the other pieces of ornate and inlaid furniture to make room for his many metal storage racks and mismatched work benches. When this room went dark in the early evening it glowed green from an ancient lava lamp kept atop a four-foot-wide steel mail sorter with orange rusted corners that belonged in a warehouse. The open shelves of the mail sorter were overflowing with rolled technical diagrams and hundreds of handwritten notes on lined yellow paper ripped from legal pads.

Forty-eight hours before Carl’s body dropped to his kitchen floor, he was rinsing off empty take-out containers and plastic lids at his sink. The #5 from Cousin Billy’s Rotisserie & Ribs was delivered before noon on a Friday. This exact same meal was delivered to Carl’s home, two days later on a Sunday, as the last meal of his life. One half rotisserie chicken seasoned with dried thyme, paprika, and black pepper was accompanied by two sides and a fountain drink. Carl liked the roasted red new potatoes for their flavonoid antioxidants and the garlic green beans for some intake of vitamins A and C. Everything from Cousin Billy’s was well bathed in butter and salt, which often left Carl feeling conflicted as he attempted to make healthy choices but was subject to the limited control associated with subscribing to delivered food for most of his meals.

He had the means for the higher cost of take-out food, with its extra service fees and occasional delivery tip. He also had the means for the inflated outlays that went with Helen’s Custom Buyers, a personal shopping service. Helen’s operated with a team of retired individuals who handled shopping duties for their homebound clients, filling online orders at local stores and managing deliveries. Carl paid extra for the delivery person from Helen’s to enter a side gate and push the bags full of groceries, household supplies, and occasionally clothing through the warped flap of an old dog door that spilled into a small laundry room. Carl had no mobility issues, he was just a self-imposed shut-in. When it came to meals, it was certainly much easier to call up for take-out rather than expose himself to public places in which he might eat among others, only to announce his life of isolation and amplify the empty feeling of eating alone. Compounding the alone part by way of witnesses was altogether avoided.

Carl continued to hand wash the last of his take-out containers along with his dish and utensils at the kitchen sink when his left foot went numb. He was trying to shuffle to his right to place items in the drying rack and came to realize that one of his legs was not in sync with the rest of his body, held back by his stiff and unresponsive left foot. Carl grabbed the tile counter and tried to redistribute more of his weight onto his right leg. Thousands of imaginary needles lightly poked and pricked the tips of his toes as he curled and stretched his left forefoot within the confines of a white leather orthopedic walking shoe. Carl visualized the internal world of his anatomy with nerve pulses misfiring in his brain. Expressed externally, this manifested as the localized tingling sensations that also provided the perception of burning along the sole of his midfoot. He attributed the numbness and everything that went along with it to the misalignment of a nerve. This was his snap theory for an underlying cause with the main culprit being his posture while eating earlier. He told himself to maintain better posture and avoid sitting in one position for extended periods of time. Maybe it was the laces of his walking shoes. Always overtightening to compensate for his narrow feet.

These were the thoughts that Carl used to block out the possibility of some greater health risk at hand. The frequent headaches he credited to lack of sleep, too much sleep, or dehydration. The repetitive burning sensation running down the middle of his abdomen as he struggled with sleep each night. Carl imagined a spice that accidentally went into the preparation of his meal at the take-out restaurant. The dizziness Carl experienced due to standing up too quickly or bending over for too long. Nothing is wrong with some low-level denial to fend off the anxiety monster associated with the possibility of these things being a precursor to something worse. At this point in his life, Carl was a veteran of numbness when it came to limbs, hands, and feet. Why should a foot that’s fallen asleep during dishwashing cause alarm or raise concern for a forthcoming stroke?

Friday night, with a little more than thirty-six hours left in Carl’s life, he looked through an online ledger of upcoming bills and the many linked financial institutions that automatically transferred funds from one account to another. These systematized transfers provided the regular balances required in his checking account to avoid bank fees and remit payments on the never ending and recurring household costs. The modern orchestration of money management magic, in which personal wealth flows from savings, pensions, small investments, and Social Security distributions to the various entities that keep the household pulse beating. Carl’s check-in on the blind stream of numbers associated with his name and zip code serves as peace of mind before sleep. It’s pre-sleep passive entertainment and a warm cuddle with his digital security blanket before nodding off to an altered consciousness. This show goes on with or without Carl’s viewership for years to come with little possibility of cancellation. Even the threat of inflation as a showstopper could only erode the financial autopilot Carl had created. True depletion of balances, enough to bring the cash flow machine down, was for a time well beyond Carl’s expected expiration from an actuarial purview.

The old Frigidaire refrigerator’s compressor buzzes throughout the night and provides bass to the endless cacophony of bubbling within the glass fish tank. The filtration system rhythmically pumps with a persistent thrum to circulate and aerate the pH balanced water. The downstairs thermostat is mounted near the main entryway and senses a whispering cold void seeping through the front door. Heat from a gas-fired forced-air system ignites with a high-pitched click multiple times throughout Carl’s rest. Deteriorated ductwork unevenly distributes this hot air throughout the old house, riddled with hidden leaks and plagued by too many dust barriers. Until the entryway thermostat’s demand is met, the upstairs roasts with dry air attacking Carl’s respiratory tract and disrupting his sleep. A small nightlight flickers from the upstairs bathroom. The timers attached to lamps downstairs have completed their cycle. The first floor is completely dark except for an ambient glow from the front porch lights, which reveals silhouettes of doorways and furniture. A Virginia opossum crosses the backyard and causes a security flood light to illuminate a massive lemon tree and the rotting fruit encircling its trunk. The awning windows to the back laundry room look out upon the lit up little yard and give passage to rectangular shafts of light coming to rest upon a gurgling 30-gallon water heater. A snap from the kitchen cuts through the soft symphony of ambient house sounds. The time has arrived for a 12-cup programmable Mr. Coffee to begin a steady percussive drip. In 30-minutes, radio waves from Classical California KUSC will resonate from Carl’s Pioneer SX-3600 stereo receiver in the den. The first movement of Moonlight Sonata fills the downstairs as a low light seeps into each window facing east. Muted musical notes jump from Carl’s nightstand and the ten-second sequence repeats until the old man is up and ready to start his last full day of life with a sharp headache and mild nausea.

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.

Ten minutes after the midday mark, a #5 from Cousin Billy’s Rotisserie & Ribs arrived at Carl’s front door. The driver didn’t stick around for a tip, but did send an email confirmation photo of the delivery next to a cracked terra-cotta clay pot full of grey dirt. Carl had made a slow recovery from his night on the leather recliner. He fulfilled the requisite morning coffee quota and picked up on his work from the night before. Food intake was intentionally kept low in order to build an appetite and then feast upon the roasted chicken still steaming before him at the kitchen table. Carl ravenously took to the leg and thigh meat. He preferred the dark meat and the savory crunchy skin of the wing tips. With the Sunday delivery, an added value item unexpectedly accompanied Carl’s order. Two buttermilk biscuits and small plastic packets of clover honey. Carl delighted in the bonus baked goods. Tearing open a packet of honey with his teeth, the golden goop drizzled on the tabletop before finding the soft surface of a split biscuit. Carl filled the dry cavity of his mouth with fluffy sweet goodness. Before he could push the balance of biscuit past his lips, his left hand fell to the table while the support from his left leg gave way and portions of his torso went limp. His body convulsed and Carl’s gag reflex ejected the contents of his mouth, followed by the contents of his stomach. Incoming light struggled to process through the optic nerve and Carl’s vision became blurry and altogether distorted. His upper torso slumped forward onto the table and his head came to rest in a combo plate of take-out food and vomit.

Carl’s right hand grabbed the hard edge of the worn kitchen table. He still had strength in his right leg and clung to the table while his active foot scraped against the linoleum floor in a frantic clawing motion. The legs of the table screeched and shifted with the spasms of his entire body. For a moment there was equilibrium as the leg of the table had run up against Carl’s chair and the weight of his person. The stillness was awkward. At once, his damaged body was broken and balancing in a holding pattern. Seated and sprawled upon the tabletop as if he were intently listening to a colony of termites buried deep beneath the maple wood surface. His right arm trembled as ligaments stretched to their limits. Waves of tension across his lateral back muscles caused a burning sensation down the side of his rib cage and along his right shoulder blade. His toes curled within his sock and a cramping sensation surrounding his right ankle spiked in sharp pain. All other parts of his physical being were numb and nonexistent. Carl’s sense of sight was severely diminished with bright spots overtaking details of the things before his eyes. The presence of a phantom chemical odor filled his nostrils as a result of his distorted sense of smell. There was no one to call out to. The single person who had held a loving concern passed away many years before.

Concurrent and incomplete thoughts consumed the internal network of Carl’s mind. He was problem solving to course correct his physical condition with every confidence that this mishap would pass. The steps he processed were disjointed and delusional, but his emotional state was optimistic. Within seconds, Carl’s thinking turned to the clean-up that would take place. He was wiping down the table with a rag soaked in ammonia-based cleanser. The scent was overwhelming. The table shook as Carl’s grip slipped and relocked. This broke the hallucinations and rambling streams of disconnected thought. There was a sudden focus for the reality of his condition and the few moments left. Carl was overwhelmed with sorrow. An apology to himself for letting this happen; letting himself go and letting himself die. An overwhelming burst of panic set in with the realization that he was taking in small gasps of air, and his oxygen was depleting. The grip of his right hand failed and released. And at that moment Carl’s body recoiled in his ladder-back armchair. The chair tipped backward and in the mere fraction of a second of this moment, he was consumed with frustration for this predicament, which he could not escape. In a futile effort to evade a certain fall, Carl pushed off with his one working limb. The extension of his right leg rolled the wood seat that held him toward the fish tank along the wall. With the sensation of dropping toward the ground, Carl lost consciousness. Soon after a head-on collision with his fish tank and a deep laceration along his left cheek, his heart stopped, and the room was quiet.

Approaching 6:00pm, a small package passes through the front door mail slot and flops to the floor. Five hours of silence breaks. Twenty feet behind Carl’s back door, misaligned metal rollers squeal on narrow rails from within the detached garage. The aluminum door rattles its way up into the unfinished pitched roof. A sequence of melodic notes echoes throughout the rafters of the small structure; the power-up brand signature of an automobile with a silent ignition. Slowly, glass debris and tiny pieces of gravel crumple beneath all-season tires. Loud music vibrates against the interior of tempered glass windows, with barely audible, muffled sounds radiating on the outside. Once again, the aluminum door rattles and metal rollers squeal. Firm contact of the garage door hitting smooth concrete delivers a low thud and a short-lived reverberation. A prolonged and enduring silence returns. Without breath, Carl’s cold body rests in the warm security of his home. The details of his death would not be recorded in any ledger nor made official for quite some time.