Heater

©2003 Seb Parker
All rights reserved.

As he lay on the frozen sidewalk, drifting into an unconsciousness from which he never wished to return, the blaring of an ambulance far in the background, Arthur tried to recall what he had done to turn this day into a living hell. As far as he could tell, nothing unusual.

Every day Arthur walked through the dreary city on his way back home from work. Seventeen blocks. Every day he passed David's Coffeehouse, where he bought a large black without sugar before embarking on the remaining sixteen. Every day, right before he would take his first step back outside, he paused for a moment to hold the hot Styrofoam cup under his nose and inhale the effluent steam's rich scent.

During his walk he would take tiny sips, nursing the cup until either he got home or the coffee became too cold. On a frigid January day like today, he expected it would die on him before he even came within four blocks of his apartment building. He still had a goodly amount as he reached the halfway point when a bicyclist zipped past him, going in the opposite direction.

He had been staring down at the brim of the cup and hadn't noticed her coming. Startled, he swung around, letting the cup slip from his gloved hands. He closed his eyes as it hit the sidewalk. The coffee spread on the frozen pavement, a brown puddle with vapors disappearing into the windy city air, as the empty cup tumbled over the curb and away down the street.

Arthur continued with the bottom of his trousers coffee-soaked; by the time he reached his building's front door, the cuffs at his ankles were frozen stiff. Feeling groggy, he fumbled with his keys before opening the door, relishing in the waft of warm air.

As usual, the building's hallway was dimly lit, smelling faintly of WD-40. Also as usual, he found his mailbox empty. Arthur could feel his pants defrosting, and he hustled up the stairs, impatient to change into something warm and dry.

Four flights later, he realized how important that second half cup of coffee had been for his invigoration. It seemed to take next to forever to reach his floor.

Mrs. Neary lived in Apartment 401, which he always made sure to walk past quietly. He wouldn't mind her unsubtle advances so much if she weren't practically twice his age and weight. Plus, Arthur preferred being alone.

His apartment was 402, but his door had never had a number on it like his neighbors'. It was better that way: drew less attention. He took his gloves off and put his key in the doorknob. Again, he couldn't get it straight and his keys fell to the ground with a jang!

As he bent to retrieve them, he heard Mrs. Neary's door open. His spine trembled in tune with her creaking hinges.

"Hello, Arthur!" she croaked. "It's been ages since I've seen you. What sort of neighbors are we becoming?" A long brown cigarette dangled from her mouth, hopping as she spoke. "You look cold as hell—maybe you should come in and have a nice hot cup of coffee." Standing erect to look at the short and paunchy sack that was his neighbor, Arthur realized what a mess he had made of the day in so short a time. Maybe he was getting a cold.

"Oh. That's okay, Mrs. Neary. I'm really tired and the bottoms of my pants are soaked. Thanks anywa..."

"Jesus, boy, it isn't a bother! Come in, have some coffee, and I'll run your slacks through the dryer. No problem." Her insistence wore on Arthur; he tried his best to be polite, yet expedient. He quickly put the correct key in the hole, turned the knob, and opened his door.

"No, really. Everything's okay. I'll just drape them over my heater. After that, I'm just going to bed. Thanks." He closed the door. No matter what he did, she never seemed to understand he was not interested in starting up a sordid affair with an obnoxious old woman.

Arthur's two-room apartment was nicely warmed against the outside cold. A large standing radiator at the far end of his bedroom supplied the heat for the entire place. The single window in his kitchen/living room stayed shut and covered with a translucent plastic sheet all winter, so that there was no way for the warm air to escape. That extra insulation made everything perfect and cozy.

He turned on the ceiling light and took off his coat. The thermostat was still on 70 from this morning. He paused for a moment with his eyes closed, enjoying the comfort of his heated apartment. Sight regained, Arthur walked into his bedroom, which was a good twenty degrees warmer (or so it felt). He went straight to the heater: blue-painted iron with cracks and missing paint chips swarming its surface. Waves of dry ardor enveloped him.

It was wonderful. He wondered how he had ended up living so far north. He hated the winter. Everything was either dead or depressed. The human race had, after all, spawned from the sweltering rain forests of Africa. Seventy degrees is a minimum. He had always thought about moving: Florida, or maybe Georgia. Blazing sun and beautiful women down there. Always thought about it, but never really got around to it.

Oh well, he resigned. Standing there felt like the next best thing.

His bedroom's coziness became even more pronounced after he glanced out the window. Disassembled by graying clouds, the setting sun cast a cold, indistinct reflection on the ice-layered streets. Across the way, Arthur recognized the thin young lady wearing a miniskirt and thigh-highs as one of the many neighborhood prostitutes. They couldn't even dress warmly in bitter colds like today. At least his life was not as bad as some others'. A new wave of warmth washed over him as the furnace clicked into high gear.

Arthur savored the relaxing heat on his thigh. He unzipped and lowered his pants to his knees, letting the radiating hotness gush against his pelvis. Stepping back, he was able to rest on the foot of his bed. He just began unlacing his shoes when the heater made a loud clang.

He bolted upright and stared at his radiator. Maybe some air in the pipes. On the back of his neck he felt was a faint, cool draft. He looked over his shoulder at the front door in the other room. All three deadbolts were locked. Over the empty chrome sink the window's plastic sheet billowed and flapped like a debilitated lung. He turned on the desk lamp, leaned across his bed, and shut the door, cutting off his view of the other room and, he hoped, that draft.

He finished removing his shoes and slipped off his pants, draping them flat over the radiator's curved surface, the hems on top. He sat back down to strip off his socks when the radiator made another clang.

Arthur gaped at the heater and his upside-down trousers, his heart slowly recovering from the start. What could be the cause of that horrible sound? He dropped to knees and checked the floor immediately surrounding the heater. Nothing discernibly wrong. There wasn't a hint of rust or a leak, either in its thick rows of rounded steel or on the heavy pipe leading from the radiator's base into the wall. He considered someone might have been banging on theirs in another apartment. God knows why. Probably some kid. If it kept up, he'd call the landlord.

Clang clang clang! After the radiator ceased its response, Arthur could discern a rhythmic aftershock running throughout the building. Then a slight throbbing emerged at his left temple. He pressed with his fingertips and rubbed in tiny circles.

With the other hand he unbuttoned his shirt, which he tried throwing over the back of his desk's chair.

He missed. Hmm: caffeine withdrawal dulling accuracy.

He slipped under the layers of covers on his bed, praying his feet would thaw. He planned to read for a spell, then settle in for a long-welcomed sleep. Occupy his mind and put an end to this miserable day. He'd been reading Dante's Inferno for the past week, but couldn't really get into it. Maybe it flowed better in its original Italian. Italy—now that's a warm country. Cost of living must be low, too. Should try and mull over moving. Live on a peaceful rustic farm, far away from the banter of imbeciles and congested traffic. Can't imagine dying an old, lonely man in some claustrophobic apartment like this, in the middle of a giant freezing city. Probably wouldn't be found for weeks. No, Arthur was positive he wouldn't want to end like that.

From his bedstand he picked up the worn paperback book he had bought from a used bookstore and opened to the dog-eared page. Canto XXXII. Almost over. His headache had subsided and he had begun to read the canto's argument when another erupting clang broke his concentration. Arthur felt his facial muscles instinctively tighten ... and the throbbing returned.

Again, he looked at the heater, its rising waves distorting the wall behind. What are the laws of physics for that phenomenon? As Arthur watched, his pants slowly began to slide to the floor. That last one must have shaken the whole radiator. Vibrated enough to knock them off. Impressive. And disturbing. Couldn't be Mrs. Neary, could it? Arthur doubted she could be desperate enough to try drawing his attention by banging on the pipes. Anyway, the sound seemed to come from his radiator. Wonder if that thing could explode in the middle of the night. Shards and shrapnel tearing through his sleeping body. He'd definitely be a mess. That would also be a pathetic way to die. He decided to call the landlord.

Arthur knew the number by heart. He pulled the slim cord running over the edge of his desk, dragging the black telephone toward him. Practically everything in this room was within arm's reach. He picked up the receiver and dialed.

Busy.

Figures, Arthur thought. He jerked the covers from off his body and leaned over the foot of his bed, reaching for the crumpled heap of his trousers. Two or three forward thrusts later, he managed to grasp them; he then rocked back into an upright position, clutching them in a ball. They were warm. He wished all clothes were heated somehow. Like an electric blanket. The technology exists—astronauts need it to survive when space walking or visiting the dark side of the moon.

He felt the bottom of the pant-legs, which were still damp, and raised one of them to his nose, sniffing deep. A pale reminder of his pleasure inhaling over a steaming cup of fresh black coffee, especially right before his long journey home from his job at the Unemployment Office. A day full of mundanity and tiring repetition. Every day of the week: Every week, for years. Arthur couldn't remember exactly how many years, which meant it had been too many.

He climbed off the bed and returned his pants to their previous position on the heater. Again, he paused to savor the warmth. It was amazing that boiling water could get so hot and keep the entire room near summery. As he stood in front of the radiator another, louder, clang sounded. Then the floor shook beneath him. The pipes. The noise had been so loud and aggravating that both Arthur's temples began to ache. He couldn't fathom what the problem could be. A little air shouldn't cause that much of a disturbance. Thankfully, his pants hadn't budged.

Arthur heard a light knocking from within the radiator, followed by a tiny hissssss. A sharp burning suddenly sizzled on his left thigh. He jumped away from the heater and fell onto his bed. A miniscule stream of water, shooting from an exterior column of the radiator's pipes, was the culprit; a small curl of escaping steam accompanied it, waving as if in salutation.

A leak. Arthur cursed this crummy, unkempt building as he rubbed the stinging red welt forming on his leg.

"Jesus Christ," he growled as he reached over the opposite side of the bed, opened one of his bureau's drawers, and retrieved a yellow towel to lay on the floor. He hoped it would be sufficient in case the leak became worse. A mildly rancid scent accompanied the steam. Water in those pipes had to be decades old. Circulating around and around the building all winter. Probably sits in there stagnating during the summer. No wonder it reeked of metal and rot. He would just have to try his best to ignore it.

He hopped back into bed, covered himself with the blanket, and returned to his book. Although Dante hadn't grabbed his attention, Arthur was mildly interested in finding out what the bottom of hell would be like. He'd manage to get there before falling asleep if there weren't any more interruptions. He went over the first line of the argument again:

'The ninth circle is formed by the frozen waters of Cocytus, into which all the rivers of...'

CLANG!

Unbelievable! Arthur peered over the top of his book at the hunk of steaming iron upon which his pants lay. Something didn't look right. The radiator seemed bigger. He figured he must be overtired ... but it sure looked as if it had expanded.

Metal does expand when heated. That would explain it cracking, causing a leak, which seemed to have already increased in velocity. He sat up on his knees so that he had a clear view of the floor. The stream of boiling water springing from the iron casting now completely overshot the folded yellow towel, a darkened circle of wetness on its center. The towel couldn't have moved. He leaned over and pulled it closer, covering the pool on the bare wooden floor where the water had landed.

Could the boiler be broken? Maybe the thermostat in the basement had been accidentally turned up. He'd go down there and check, but first he'd give his landlord a second chance. He grabbed the telephone and hit Redial.

Still busy. Who in the world could possibly be talking to that withered and dour old man? He had no friends or family: at least none Arthur had ever seen. Phone must be off the hook. Oh well; resigned, Arthur replaced the receiver.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Arthur's ears rang. The throbbing had evolved into a pounding. What could the problem be? Although the clanging had ceased, there now remained a low gurgling coming from somewhere within the wall behind the heater—which looked bigger still. Also, his pants had again fallen off while he wasn't looking.

With a groan, he leaned over (again) to retrieve his trousers, also wanting a closer look at the radiator and the area around it. Stretching downwards, Arthur could now make out a small puddle of water on the floor under the heater. It seemed to be coming from a crack at the point where the wall met the floor. Steam was rising from this, as well. The quiet gurgling was more audible. Boiling water in the pipes ... and something more. Whispering. Countless voices, hissing and calling each other—lulling and soft.

His heart quivered in synch with the pounding in his head, amplifying the pain. He got out of bed and grabbed his crumpled pants from the floor. Bending over sent a rush of blood to his brain, making his discomfort more intolerable. Above all else, his pants were still wet, soaked with such hotness his hands had trouble holding them. They had landed right into the pool of water spreading from underneath the heater. With disgust, he threw his heavy ball of sopping trousers against the iron mammoth. They slid off, hitting the floor with a plop.

"Fuck you!" he bellowed, feeling foolish for frustratingly addressing an inanimate object. He needed to stay cool and calm. Breathe easily and clear his head.

Arthur's headache gradually abated. Now, he thought to himself after the pain had lulled, to go downstairs and remedy this situation. He hoped it wouldn't grow any worse before returning.

He grabbed a fresh pair of corduroys from his bureau and headed to the door. He placed his palm on the knob and felt a horrible searing. He yanked his hand away, teeth clenched. After inspecting his hand, he found a number of blisters already emerging from the reddened skin, which brought the pain on his leg—and, of course, his headache—back to his attention. He hadn't the foggiest notion as to how the knob could have become so hot. Had it something to do with the radiator ... maybe a pipe in the wall near the jamb?

Arthur blamed the freezing weather, his landlord, the building, and, naturally, his bedroom heater for all conspiring against him. If only he lived someplace else. Somewhere warm and quiet. Peaceful, without overbearing neighbors or the barrage of jarring city noises. Somewhere where heaters were not necessary. He stared at the doorknob, listening to the maddening, sweltering effervescence filling the room; a shadowy sense of confinement began to brood and swell within him.

He turned around with the faint hope that he might be able to fix the problem directly. Unfortunately, Arthur was never very good with his hands and so had never really invested in tools of any sort. He might have a flathead screwdriver somewhere, but that would be of little help. He needed a soldering iron or epoxy. Something that would glue tightly and hold against the pressure. Arthur turned and faced the heater.

It had grown to an immense size, filling up nearly a third of the room and pulsating as it continued to distend. Its shape had altered as well, becoming disproportionate as the left side expanded at a greater rate than the right. Arthur swore he could make out a number of bulges appearing and disappearing on its iron skin. It writhed, alive with a hot breath that stifled the whole room in torrid waves.

Arthur watched, numbed and paralyzed, as the radiator disfigured faster and faster. Its surface bubbled and the entire mass seemed to vibrate. The gurgling grew louder, resembling some obscene primal language. There was even a concavity forming at the center, which looked strangely like a mouth. Arthur probably would have stood there staring in mute astonishment forever, had the familiar clanging not begun its fervent complaints again:

CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANGCLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG...

On and on it rang, shaking him to awareness. He expected it would cease after a few seconds, but it persisted, and he realized that this time it would not end.

And then the soles of his feet began to burn.

Steaming water covered the floor. Arthur jumped onto his bed, panting. The air had grown humid and difficult to breathe.

And the heater...

The heater had assumed a giant, worm-like shape. A worm that Arthur knew could not exist but which faced him in a terrifying reality.

Arthur's didn't know what to do. He felt like a man trapped on a sinking raft before a monstrous sea-creature, and he shuddered because the sensation was not nearly as metaphoric as he would have preferred.

Its blind head (or what Arthur assumed to be its head) began to flail about, thrashing from side to side as though sniffing for prey or gasping in horrible agony. Slow and deep burbles accompanied the clanging, emanating from deep within its bowels. Its skin still appeared as dense as metal, but now glistened with moistened flexibility. The mouth opened and closed—frighteningly fast. Arthur again cast his eyes to the door, barely discernable through the steamy mist congesting the bedroom. He'd have to give it one more shot.

Arthur waited for the perfect moment to escape. He'd never been so afraid, although his fear had developed into a strange calm on account of the ludicrousness of the situation. Panic settled in only after Arthur recognized the worm had assumed the shape of a deranged and misshapen Mrs. Neary.

Arthur screamed and ran, not allowing himself another moment of speculation. There'd be time for that once he was safe.

He threw his blanket on the floor, hoping the water wouldn't seep through too quickly, and lunged onto it. Already his bare soles began to scald. As fast as he could, he tried turning the doorknob, using his pillow as a protective mitt. He couldn't get a grip.

Screw it. He put his bare hand on the knob. The pain was incredible, but Arthur maintained his hold. Unbearable though the burning was, he managed to force the door open. He fell into the next room, the thrumming monstrosity behind him crying out.

The whole apartment felt like a sauna. Unable to see much of anything, Arthur got to his feet and hurried to the dark outline in the mist that he assumed was the far door. Horrible sounds followed him. He refused to look back, although he could swear something warm and wet had brushed against his heels. He didn't want to know what that thing had become, much less try and figure out why.

He ran from his apartment into the brisk air of the dim hallway. He could feel the rush of heat escape his apartment, a warm whoosh against his backside. His spine shuddered as he dashed past Apartment 401. Faint gurgles trailed behind him as he rounded the top banister of the stairwell ... and the creaking sound of an opening door.

Arthur flew down the four flights to the ground floor. Far above, a heavy CLANG echoed down the stairs, causing him to almost miss his step, but he found his balance and ran into the empty lobby, past the mailboxes in the foyer, and through the security doors leading outside.

Gasping for breath, Arthur's lungs inhaled the freezing air of twilight. The crispness stung the perspiration on his brow. He looked down at his bare feet, the aching cold of the sidewalk numbing their tender pads.

This is absurd, Arthur thought. What am I doing?

A heavy gust blew up the street, bringing with it more cold. Then a gentle knocking along the curb arrested his attention. A cup—David's written along its side—tumbling in its continuing journey. It hopped the curb and landed on the sidewalk with a clop, then rolled in a wide arc toward him. The scratched, coffee-stained receptacle came to rest against Arthur's left foot.

He couldn't help but smile. Had I needed that second cup that much after all?

No. What he needed was a new heater.

Arthur shook his head and laughed. He needed a rest. He headed back to his building. As he mounted the stairs to the main entrance, his foot slipped sideways along the icy top ledge, usurping his equilibrium and eliciting a pop from his knee. He fell, scraping his feet and hands against the harsh edges of the concrete steps, his head smacking hard on the uneven pavement. His smile was gone.

Just then, a blaring ambulance came to a stop at the adjacent curb. Two EMTs hurried from its cab carrying a stretcher. Mrs. Neary met them at the door. None of them seemed to notice the man lying on the sidewalk. Arthur groaned. A moment later, they returned. A white sheet covered a body reposed upon the stretcher. It was shuttled into the ambulance as Mrs. Neary emerged from the front door.

"Oh, Arthur!" she cried. Arthur raised his head, but Mrs. Neary gaze was trained on the departing ambulance.

A group of people gathered around the door. The young prostitute was among them.

"What happened?" asked a familiar woman on a bicycle.

"He ... he's dead!" Mrs. Neary cried. "His apartment .... He ... froze to death!"

Arthur looked up at the fourth story row of windows. And there it was—his heater, transfigured into a lunatic mockery of a humanoid form—gazing down at him from his apartment window. Its demonic face, a deformed mass of bubbling protuberances, was stretched into insane yet knowing grin.

I'm in Hell, Arthur thought. A miserable day for sure.

Arthur closed his eyes, relishing the moment of cool darkness. He tried his best not to laugh—

—So he cried, instead.

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