Lead Tears

By Wes Payton

Lead Tears tells the story of a lost soul named Vert and his search for purpose. He works as a Witness, which is a "new and necessary profession" in the near future. Witnesses are paid observers who document important events in reports written from their unique perspectives. Vert grapples with the absurdities of his lucrative line of work as he encounters people living lives they loathe.

Wordplay is an important element of the plot; the title itself is a homograph that is key to the narrative. The story is part satire and part existential discourse...it's also funny and heartfelt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wes Payton
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310935152

Wes Payton

Wes Payton has a B.A. in Rhetoric/Philosophy and an M.A. in English. His play Way Station was selected for a Next Draft reading in 2015, and What Does a Question Weigh? was selected for a staged reading as part of the 2017 Chicago New Work Festival. He is the author of the novels Lead Tears, Darkling Spinster, Darkling Spinster No More, Standing in Doorways, and Downstate Illinois. Wes and his family live in Oak Park, Illinois.

Book preview

Lead Tears

by Wes Payton

Copyright 2016 Wes Payton

Published by Wes Payton at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For the Catherines in my family.

Thank you for your love.

Table of Contents

Prologue: Contemplative Motorbike

Chapter 1: Sidecar

Chapter 2: Kickstand

Chapter 3: Saturday in the Park

Chapter 4: Mother-cycle

Chapter 5: No-Parking Parking Lot

Chapter 6: Motor-psych-ill

Midlogue: Lead Tears

Chapter 7: Dream Bike

Chapter 8: A Cycle Too Expensive to Ride

Chapter 9: Idle Brake

Chapter 10: Pluperfect Motorcycle

Chapter 11: Break Idyll

Epilogue: Lead Tears

Prologue: Contemplative Motorbike

Vert walked into the dimly lit bar. Even on a Friday night the place was nearly empty, which was why he liked it. He perched on his usual stool near the television. His workday had been long, and he had another job early the next morning, but he never sleeps well after an assignment and without a nightcap he doesn't sleep at all. A few of the barflies nodded their heads in his direction and one gave him a small, sad wave. Vert waved back insouciantly, as if waving to an orphan from a cruise ship. He figured most of these regulars were trying to drink themselves to death, which is probably the worst way to kill oneself—protracted and cowardly—though maybe that's the point. A showy suicide, like self-immolation, would suggest a grander purpose, but the slow burn of an alcoholic's death hints at a quiet contriteness. Maybe these guys wished they'd been better husbands or better fathers or better sons, or maybe they just wished they hadn't spent their lives as drunks. Vert didn't consider himself one of them; he wasn't looking for a leisurely place to die. He frequented the bar because it was a good place to be invisible, and he liked the music. Old bluesmen, like John Lee Hooker, were often played on the jukebox; JLH was known as the Hook and the Boogie Man. Vert wished he had a cool nickname.

She came through the door with a honking car horn and a gusting warm wind. Every patron pretended not to stare as she clicked her heels obnoxiously across the tiled barroom floor. The electric-blue dress she wore clung to her like a bioluminescent cephalopod. Her face was innocent of makeup, and her light green eyes complemented her sublime countenance. She wasn't an extraordinary beauty, but in a room accustomed to so many ugly mugs she was a looker by comparison. Moving to the barstool near Vert, she ordered a caipirinha, but the bartender only offered a confused expression. She explained that it's the national cocktail of Brazil, which in no way helped her cause. She countered with a mojito, but the two finally settled on a gin and tonic with a muddled lemon. Vert should've been intrigued, but she seemed to be trying too hard. Her being there was trying too hard. She could clearly do better, and she knew it. And her dress was ridiculous.

Have you been coming here long? she asked him.

And she was too forward…maybe he was a little intrigued.

Isn't that my line? he replied.

I'm a modern gal, so I don't have much in the way of patience.

I hear there's a lot of that going around. This is my first time here. I'm not sure if I'll come back.

The bartender glanced over and asked gruffly, Another usual, Vert?

No thanks. I have to work early tomorrow.

Vert, that's a peculiar name. As in per-Vert?

Ouch, good one. You got me.

You're kind of a smart ass, huh?

Yes, said a loud but anonymous voice from the far end of the bar.

So what kind of job have you got that you work on Saturday mornings?

I do things, Vert evaded.

Oh, a thing doer…fascinating.

I work as a Witness.

You mean one of those guys that wears a funny yellow jacket and gets paid to watch stuff happen? she asked, sounding impressed.

That's me.

From what I understand that's a hard job to get, but once you get it the money comes easy.

We have to write a lot of reports.

Still sounds easy.

It ain't difficult.

She checked her mobile phone as he looked up at the television. He couldn't decide if he should buy her a drink. He hadn't planned to have another himself, but then he hadn't planned to have a conversation with a woman in a blue dress.

I have to go soon, she said, looking up from her phone.

Me too.

Are you really a Witness?

I'm actually a surgeon.

That's not nearly as interesting.

I disagree. I'm Chief of Jurassic Medicine.

She laughed a little, or at least enough, and then asked So are you by chance a married surgeon?

You get right to it, don't you?

Like I told you, I'm impatient.

I was engaged once.

What happened?

She died.

Not sure of what to say, but knowing she should say something she offered a simple, I'm sorry.

Well, she didn't die exactly. She moved away and married another guy. She emails from time to time to ask how I am…real good, thanks.

Love is a four letter word.

Hearts and flowers: Flowers die and rot/Hearts beat blood and then they stop, Vert said as if reading verse.

I didn't expect there to be poetry here.

This is a posh place.

It has history—I'll give it that, she said as her eyes scanned the photographs of mustachioed pugilists on the wall behind the bar.

Following her gaze, he said, They just got those pictures last year, bought them online to match the recently installed vintage decor. I think before that this place used to be a karaoke bar.

How long have you been coming here?

More than a year.

What keeps you coming back?

The booze.

Lots of places have that.

I feel comfortable here.

Yeah, it's kind of a comfortable place, she said, twisting on her barstool.

Most bars are too noisy for me.

Do you have a sensitivity to loud noises?

More of a sensitivity to loud people.

Ah, a bit of social anxiety then?

I think I'm somewhere on the spectrum between Thomas Jefferson and Boo Radley, he admitted.

What's that feel like?

Like there's always a radio playing and someone keeps changing the station. Usually it's in the background and it doesn't bother me, but sometimes I get overloaded and have trouble tuning it out.

Seems as if that would make being a Witness difficult.

I never said I was good at it.

Do you suffer from low self-esteem too? she asked. I hear that often goes along with social anxiety.

Can a person really assess their own level of self-esteem?

Good point. I'm not sure. Let's try an experiment. Pretend we just met.

We did just meet.

That was ages ago. Okay, so we just met, but this time I'm blind. How would you describe yourself to me? she asked, closing her eyes.

Wouldn't you use your hands to feel my face?

I'm blind, and I have no hands, she answered, closing her eyes again.

Then how would you drink your drink?

Through a straw.

But you wouldn't be able to see it.

I would have a personal assistant.

Then couldn't he tell you what I look like?

Hey, why don't you try playing along, she chided, closing her eyes once more.

I'd say, if I were being truthful—which I see no advantage in—that I'm on the verge of being handsome. Not so ugly as to be an embarrassment to a girlfriend, but not so handsome as to prevent her from thinking she could do better.

She opened her eyes and studied his face for a moment, Everybody has at least one good angle and one bad angle. You've got more of the former than the latter, so you're doing okay.

So I don't have low self-esteem? Vert asked.

Oh, I have no idea about that. I'm not a psychiatrist.

What are you?

A Pisces, she prevaricated.

I mean what's your job?

I'm an actor, but I'm not very good at it either.

If it makes you feel any better, Einstein was probably a lousy patent clerk. How come you're not any good?

Because I never get an opportunity to perform. We live in a city with 50 theaters and 50,000 out-of-work actors.

You're a stage actress?

I'm any kind of actress that pays.

How come you don't move to Los Angeles?

I don't like my chances out there.

It's a tough business, Vert sympathized.

I once heard that too, she said, taking a long drink. Do you like your job?

Not really, but it pays pretty well. Until recently I was impecunious.

I imagine it's nice not being poor.

Having limited means is what first brought me to this place.

I guess a Witness has to be pretty intelligent.

Someone forgot to tell my boss that.

But you had to pass a test.

Yes, Vert answered, though it doesn't test intelligence.

Then what does it test?

That's a good question.

Funny how the good questions hardly ever have good answers. So what's your next assignment?

I'm observing a bunch of motorcycle cops.

Do you ride on the back?

No, I'm licensed to ride on my own. I had to pass a test for that too.

Now I know you're pulling my leg.

Not at all, they give me a bike with a siren and everything.

She looked him in the eyes, searching for signs of veracity or bullshit, then asked, Is your name really Vert?

You can ask my mother.

In my whole life I never met anyone named Vert.

If you want to meet me again, I'll be here tomorrow night.

Maybe I'll be here too then, she said, simpering as she sipped her drink.

I'd like that.

Vert exited the bar with a growing concupiscence that made him feel both heavy and weightless.

Chapter 1: Sidecar

CYA Report:

I have to wait ten minutes more in the Repose Room—ten more interminable minutes. I loathe being made to sit here in this stultifying, hypnogogic silence. The young motorcycle cops pretend to cogitate, while the older ones sleep behind oversized sunglasses. I detest this awkward theater of the absurd, but more than that I despise the Repose Room as a putative solution to what is an unfixable problem: stupidity.

Six months ago a cycle squadron operation had gone spectacularly wrong. A rookie cycle cop lost control of his eBike and crashed into a sidewalk café, injuring himself, three alfresco diners, and the squad's not entirely unblemished reputation, which led to a deluge of obloquy from the public. Residents of the destination neighborhood made a stink, so their alderman made a fuss, and members of the mayor's cabinet made some bad decisions. They suggested a restructuring of the pre-operation procedure for all cycle squad details, which mostly involved having the cohort sit quietly for thirty minutes in an empty room before each operation and meditate so as to achieve clarity of assignment—or understanding of task, depending on which press release one read—before taking to the streets.

However, lack of meditation was not the problem—lack of sense was. The offending officer, who currently has a very important assignment of indefinite duration guarding coats and umbrellas at a courthouse annex, was a hotdog cop who had just qualified for the cycle squad. He decided the best way to introduce himself to the rest of the team was to zip past the entire eBike cavalcade while doing a wheelie and brandishing his middle finger. What he didn't know (one of the many, many things he didn't know) was that the custom police eBikes, with their heavy battery packs and extensive police add-ons, handle much differently than the light and agile dirt bikes of his youth. An electric police motorcycle can easily muster enough torque for a wheelie, but once its front tire leaves the road, the rest of the bike pretty much goes wherever it pleases, which in this case was right down the sidewalk into the Bawdy Bistro's patio. A week after the directive from city hall, a photo of the department's freshly whitewashed, former smoking lounge appeared on the front page of the Tribune along with the headline: Will Repose Room Right Rowdy Riders? And so a sobriquet was born.

The purchase of the eBikes had been part of an initiative from the mayor's office the previous year to make the municipal fleets greener, and the bikes had proven popular with constituents, despite being expensive and somewhat pointless given the frequently inclement Midwestern weather. The voting public liked the idea of a police posse mounted on rechargeable steel steeds—at once both retro and futuristic—doling out law and order in an environmentally responsible manner. So rather than scrap the program, the decision was made to have the officers calm themselves before each assignment through reflection. Another addition was also made: namely me, since I was the only Witness in the city with a valid motorcycle license.

Like this room, I am here to promote balance; I've been tacitly tasked to be the tranquil yin to this frenzied detail's yang. Following that line of reasoning, if you sat in a quiet room for thirty minutes and then someone hit you upside the head with a croquet mallet while I was there to witness it, balance would be achieved—yin and yang—abracadabra...all better. This was one of those instances in which politicians act like lunatics operating a locomotive, pulling levers whose functions they don't understand with the objective of making the train whistle blow. The more high-concept a change they could implement the better, all so they have something to point at and say, Look how different we've made it; we've changed everything, as if changed was the same as fixed. Of course, it won't be known for some time if their changes actually solved the problem, by which point there will be new, more pressing issues that need fixing.

The Repose Room is an incarnation of all that sort of nonsense, and it turns my own thoughts into nonsense. If I look long enough at the white walls they become windows, and on the other side of those panes is a world like ours—almost. The people I see look like us, but they move without purpose and they act without reason, and the longer we stay in this room the more those people laugh at us. However, sight isn't the only sense that this room assaults. It still smells of decades of acrid cigarette smoke, thinly masked by the chemical stink of fresh paint. Four more minutes.

After the sergeant releases the cycle cohort and me from our imposed repose, we walk down a long, cinderblock hallway—a chatty procession of clicking jackboots and clacking handcuffs. If you ever want to get a bunch of taciturn cops to gab like schoolchildren, have them sit in forced silence for half an hour. We enter the motorcycle level of the subbasement and get to putting on our gear—jackets, helmets, rain suits. How come it always seems to rain during these predawn sorties? As is the custom, the older officers complain of malfunctioning helmets and return them to the equipment cage with sticky notes for the quartermaster, comprehensively describing the nature of the concocted malfunctions: damn-aged, shit-jiggered, monkey-nuts. It's almost impossible to get an old timer to wear a helmet.