Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson

Let them honk if they’re about to hit me.
    Not that there are many people out on this gray Sunday morning. I can’t remember exactly where I’m wandering. It’s one of those indistinguishable neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. The blank modern façades try hard to appear antiseptic but the structural rot peeks through even the freshest coats of paint. The narrow streets are empty except for a lone figure dressed in molting clothes and cradling a bandaged hand. That’s me. I’m prospecting for a promising corner to collect change for a bus ticket. The final destination doesn’t matter. I just want to be in a different city. I’m too hollowed out to be picky.
    I’m heading through the intersection of the main boulevard when something tugs at my shirt. A man yanks me back onto the curb. He immediately apologizes, speaking in a foreign-inflected English. “I am so sorry,” he says, looking genuinely aggrieved. I figure a truck must have been careening toward us, but the street is empty. There’s not even any slow-circling taxis, chumming for fares. “I am so sorry you’re sick,” the man continues. “It is painful for me because a dear friend of mine had the same disease. This is a terrible thing to see a young person in such a state.”
    I have no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe there’s a glitch in the translation of his thoughts. “This may sound strange,” he continues. “But you should know how lucky you are to run
into me. I can help you.” The man spots my bandaged hand and stops short.
    My mind starts to hum. I slashed my palm several weeks ago while scurrying up a chain-link fence. The cut is an aching inconvenience, but at least it generates sympathy when I need to solicit cash. But now I start to wonder if it’s also initiated some creeping systemic infection. I’ve been living by myself and haven’t made a careful inspection of my reflection in days. Or maybe it’s even been weeks. Maybe this person sees something I can’t.
    â€œDid you not know?” the man asks. “Your hand has been very slow to heal, has it not? Didn’t you find this unusual? It is a symptom of the disease. Do not be ashamed. At first my poor friend did not recognize it either. But I know how to help you.”
    It’s true the scarlet slash across my hand hasn’t properly scabbed. Maybe I have contracted a virus. Who knows what kinky microbes cling to hostel mattresses and bus station toilet seats. It’s not like I feel ideal, either. I’ve had all kinds of health issues. But are my persistent cough and acidic stomach manifestations of something more sinister? I find myself starting to back away.
    The man claps his hands to regain my attention. It’s a weirdly authoritative and almost parental gesture, the way you’d deal with a distracted child. “You are sick, my friend,” he says. “This is a tragic reality. Why would I lie about something like this?”
    I shake my head. Not to indicate one thing or another, but to try and clear some mental space. “Do you think I am trying to take your money?” the man asks. An injured and indignant expression squirms across his face. “Look at me. Do I look like someone who needs to take advantage of anybody?”
    The man is Germanic, early thirties, stylish blond crew cut, clean shaven, trim physique, blue sweater and tan slacks. “Look at my shoes,” he says. “I am not joking, look at my shoes!” They’re brown leather loafers with a discrete black circle, doubtless
some chic designer insignia, stitched above the toes. “Tell me why someone wearing these shoes would take advantage? I do not require anyone’s time or money.”
    He brushes his fingertips along the small of my back, subtly guiding us in the direction of a shopping thoroughfare off the main boulevard. “Call me