Vinegar-Gurgle

After we burned her with acid, I started sketching.

Rich would’ve burned my drawings, except I wanted to report what we did—what they did, and when I started penciling in my dingy apartment, I stopped with the I can’t sleep, we gotta tell. 

Just a joke, Rich said. I stayed back because I didn’t want anything to do with it, the woman didn’t belong, the pandemic was their fault, but I drew the line at pouring acid over her. It’s just… they poured it wrong, she turned, he slipped, it went down her throat, she was slipping and sliding where she was throwing out trash, not just scratching her eyes, but gurgling, gurgle, gurgle and we all scattered, shit shit shit did she see us.

I didn’t stop until I got to my apartment, cockroaches scuttling away as I tromped the walkway, and I clicked the bulb, flick. Then I clicked it off, and I swear I smelled vinegar, ‘cuz when she was dumping the trash it smelled like vinegar, goddamn. There was a rat somewhere in the walls, and I heard it rustling, but tonight I didn’t care. We learned she was in the hospital from the news broadcast, anyone with information, please call, Rich was saying lay low, it’ll blow over, she deserved it because her people started the pandemic, there was camera recording, but we were masked, it was dark, haha.

I couldn’t sleep, and I was smelling vinegar and the sink gurgled, and I squeak-walked across my old floor, but it didn’t help. I remember someone saying it helped to write it down, writing was like dumping, so I got a notepad, but I didn’t write, I drew.

No, I masked it, I changed faces, made it a street, woman wasn’t dumping trash but strolling, scribbled “Vinegar-Gurgle.” I always wanted to draw comics, so I drew, like, a story. I could finally sleep, the more I drew, the more I slept. Rich caught a peak, not finished yet, but—shit, this is… this is good. Vinegar-Gurgle, huh? 

Really?

For sure, just finish it.

We’d gotten to watching the recording of her slipping and sliding now, clawing her face for laughs—no sound but we all remembered her gurgling. She lived, was recovering miraculously, so it was okay.

But I kept drawing to sleep, and I felt cockroaches on my feet. Shit, I jumped, threw my notepad down.

In the dark, I smelled vinegar. I flicked the bulb and the cockroaches were convening over the notepad, fish-wire antennae waggling. What the— No, they were entering the pages.

Then I woke—yeah, nightmare—daylight streaming through the window. I picked up my crumply comic and gurgle gurgle there were cockroaches. Not smushed roaches, but the panels had them crawling. I’d drawn Vinegar-Gurgle covering her eyes and screaming but now she had roaches gushing out her mouth, when’d I draw that?

There were lots of Chinese, Chinese flu, what’s the boo-hoo, it’s just a describing word, like Chinese food, like Spanish flu. I went out and found Rich. They all looked the same, not our fault. Our woman lived, but this old guy that got pushed—Thai—and cracked his skull. Long name, started with V. Our woman lived, news said there was an investigation, call this number if you know, here’s a sketch-artist’s sketch, but it was terrible, nobody came looking, we were clear, she was healing fantastically well.

You did good, Rich said. You stayed back, but you didn’t snitch.

Come to think, whenever we did stuff like we did to the woman, it was Rich’s idea. But Rich had my back, yeah?

I returned to the sketches on the couch. I flipped through, and know what? The roaches were cool. Like, they added something. Never knew I was so good with pencil. Vinegar-Gurgle shuffling the streets, roaches dropping from her every step. She’s looking, gurgle-gurgle, looking, what’s she looking for? Rich was right, this was good. I started sketching again, streets like a maze keeping her in. Rich was gonna come get me, we’d go out. Maybe get one drawing in…

It was quiet, I missed the real roaches. Hey, where was the rat? 

Always heard it in the walls, now it was like an old friend missing.

I flipped the page, and shit, a rat following Vinegar-Gurgle like some puppy, how’d I miss that, when’d I draw…

Was dark now, Rich should’ve been here hours ago.

I flip, flip, flip gurgle gurgle. Rich is in my comic. Vinegar-Gurgle is looking for him. Yeah, I did sketch him for practice, I sketched all of us, but… flip, he’s scared. Zoom in on his face, he’s smelling something. Vinegar-Gurgle’s a shadow behind him. Flip, zoom—his eye looking behind.

Flip, pan out—his face again. His palms against the page, like it’s not paper but a wall, lemme out PLEASE. Pan—Vinegar-Gurgle, roaches-for-eyes, holding something over his head. Pan—gurgle gurgle it’s not acid, it’s crawling, it’s wiggling, it’s falling onto him—

Gurgle gurgle.

I draw, yeah, but not this good. Flip, that’s another of us from that night. What’s that on his face shit, going down his throat. Flip—another of us. Flip, flip, flip—everyone’s screaming but not-screaming in pencil, who drew this.

Gurgle gurgle.

It’s dark, I flick the bulb and everything’s grey… like, pencil grey. I touch the wall, it’s crumply like paper. Something strange about this quiet room, no roaches scuttling, no shuffling rat. How long have I been here?

It’s not like I’m some poor woman on a gurney, gurgle gurgle—can you describe him, ma’am, if you can’t talk, here’s a sketch pad. And she’s penciling in a little each day, and each time she gets one of them on paper, those that did this to her, gurgle gurgle, she heals a little, and if she can just get that one who stayed back, maybe she could talk again.

Gurgle. Someone behind me.

I look up, vinegar-smell, something drops, crawly-crawly on my face.

* * *

Ⓒ Andrew K Hoe