INTERFERENCE (A Short Novel)

II. The Song

II. The Song

           

            Jeremy’s house is a two-room unit stated at the fourth floor of an apartment complex: a five-storey cube-shaped building with twenty-one identical, cream-colored units that housed well-off college students, young couples, retirees, and young professionals. Jeremy immediately settled on his velveteen couch after taking a shower. Jeremy still felt a bit jangled after dodging elbow blows and body slams from the rushing throng of working-class commuters that flooded into the sliding doors of the 6:30 subway. He used to drive a black Hyundai during his years in the UCLA, and now that he’s working in the topmost echelon of a budding insurance company, he is commuting.

Progress.

            Jeremy downed a can of Coors Light, still thinking of a way on how could that possibly happen to the phone, and how could he possibly fix it. Jeremy shook his head. He just can’t believe himself for letting it slide, submitting himself into becoming a fully-aware scapegoat. He knew that whatever it is that happened to the phone is definitely not his fault. Well, it is now. He knew that he should have said something, should have protested – but he also knew that you shouldn’t turn down a Boss’s order, especially if it is you who is under the gun.

            Well, damned if you do, damned if you don’t, he thought.

Jeremy headed for the fridge to get two more cans of beer. He thinks he’s slowly becoming a Yesman, soon, a suckup (God, nobody wants a suckup), soon, a boss’s lapdog, and in no time, he’ll be polishing his boss’s ass just to save his.

            I should have –  at least – said something, he mused.

            Sitting back down the couch, Jeremy tried his boss’s phone for the kazillionth time. He tried absorbing the meaning of the song in the ringback, getting nothing so far but confusion. To him, the voice of the singing girl just sounded too unearthly.

            Yeah, probably a ghost, he concluded.  A vengeful spirit of a little girl, most probably murdered, looking for justice. And she just happened to mess with the phone’s system so that anyone who hears her song dies within seven days… or nine? Or thirteen? Whatever, Jeremy. You’re a dead man.

            Jeremy stared blankly at the ceiling for a long time, then, he rewound the thought back in his head: Probably a ghost… He chuckled, realizing how stupid it sounded.

            “Okay. I’m nuts!” he declared out loud – loud enough to be heard by his neighbor who happened to be an old man with a pair of pet squirrels that snapped to attention at the mention of the word ‘nuts’.

            Jeremy tried a call. As it connects, he set the phone into loudspeaker. The ringback plays.

“From the Silver City, the Son will rise,

The heavenly chorus will shout in jouyous cries,

For though the children of Adam will be taken by surprise,

Everything shall be fine when he brings down the paradise.

To the promised land,

To the home of the banished ones.

To the promised land,

To the promised land…

At the end of all time.”

            Jeremy almost memorized the song after repeatedly listening to it. It could have been a simple children’s song, except only that’s it’s so… creepy. Could be because of the lyrics, Jeremy thought. He can’t place a finger on where it felt wrong, but to him it just sounded a little too cheerful and a little too hair-raising at the same time.

            He tried several other ways to make the phone work, changing the settings, raping the ON/OFF button, letting it rest without a SIM nor a battery – and all of it accomplished nothing but to make him lose his patience.

            “FUCK!” he yelled, fighting the urge to dash the phone to pieces.

            A moment later, someone knocked on his apartment door. Unaccustomed to visitors, he cautiously peeped on the peephole. Surprisingly, it turned out to be his neighbor: Mr. Godfried McKenna, the old man with squirrels. Jeremy opened the door.

            “Oh. Hi, Mr. McKenna,” Jeremy greeted.

            “Just Godfried, Jeremy,” the old man said with a smile.

            “Of course, Godfried. Why don’t you come in?” Jeremy asked. Godfried, he thought. To Jeremy, Godfried always conjures an image of a breaded god in a fryer. God fried, alright.

            “Uh, I guess I don’t have to, son. Just dropped by to check if you’re okay. I heard you screaming like you’re screaming at someone. But I remembered you don’t have a girlfriend, so I thought you were talking to yourself. Which could mean you’re stoned, or drunk, or… ‘you know, losing it’. In any case, can I be of any help?”

            Jeremy chortled. “No no, no, Godfried, thanks. There’s no need for that. I’m just a little stressed out by my work. Sorry to disturb you with my noise.”

            Godfried dismissed the apology with a wave.

            “Ah. Work. I missed spending a third of my daily hours clicking away on a typewriter in my very own office. Ahh. Those days…” Godfried laughed. “You know, Jimmy and Jonie always distract me from the hassles of life,” he said, referring to his squirrel pair. “I have videos of them, sort of fooling around in their terrarium. Those videos are really entertaining. I could lend you some of those videos in CD’s, just to take off the edge, what do you say to that, son?”

            Godfried bounced his bushy white eyebrows.

            Jeremy shuddered. Now he’s getting a picture of what Godfried does with his pair of male and female squirrels. Videos. Damn.

            “Uh, sure. That would be great, but I don’t really think I’ve got time for leisure and stuff.”

            “All work and no play makes Jeremy a dull boy, son. Don’t work too hard,” Godfried said.

            Jeremy smiled. “I’ll remember that, Godfried.”

            “Guess I’ll go. Time for the squirrels to eat,” Godfried said with a wink.

            When Godfried left, Jeremy palmed the door shut and took a deep breath. Mr. McKenna has just ruined the image of those cute, fuzzy-tailed creatures in his mind. 

            Jeremy sat back in his sofa, shaking his head.

            “Holy fucking son of a fucking bitch. Squirrel porn,” he mumbled.

            Porn. 

The mention of the word made him remember someone. Now he has a plan.