The Three Fates of Henrik Nordmark: A Novel by Christopher Meades Page B

whether or not he really had to pee. He was counting how many times he’d used the lavatory today when a police officer entered through the front doors. This cop walked at a different pace than everyone else. His stride was fast and hard, a hare leaving tortoises in his wake. He extended his hand to Henrik.
    “I’m Constable Sullivan.”
    Henrik stared at this man’s formidable moustache.
    “Security Guard Henrik Nordmark,” he replied.
    “We got a call from one of the merchants on the third floor. The smell of marijuana smoke entered through their windows. Usually we wouldn’t investigate something like this but the mayor introduced a new Say No To Drugs campaign just last week and my sergeant’s been on my ass.”
    Henrik’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to swallow but the saliva got lodged in his throat.
    “How may I help?” he said.
    The constable took off his hat and held it in his hands. “Have there been any teenagers hanging around the building? Do any street people sleep out back?”
    Henrik could barely catch his breath. A single bead of sweat originated from somewhere atop his vast scalp and careened down his forehead. It was the first drop in a torrential downpour.
    “No sir,” he said. “No unruly teenagers or hobos.”
    The officer placed his hand on Henrik’s shoulder and took him aside. “Are you all right?” he said. “Your face is all red and you’re sweating pretty bad. You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”
    Henrik could barely pay attention to the man’s words, so chaotic was the swell in his brain. He kept replaying a television commercial in his head from twenty years ago in which a man held an egg to depict the regular human brain and then cracked the egg into a frying pan to show what your brain looks like on drugs. Months after that commercial aired, a poster in the supermarket took the metaphor a step further by showing your brain on drugs with a side of bacon. After having only a fuzzy recollection of this poster for the past decade, Henrik suddenly thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He stifled a giggle. Henrik tried his best to hold in the rest but he laughed out loud in spite of himself.
    The constable was still staring at him. Henrik needed an excuse. Not just any excuse, but a really good one that would both explain and mystify.
    “I ate some bad roast beef this morning,” he said.
    “You have to take care of yourself, buddy,” the cop said. “Get some fresh air and exercise.” He tapped Henrik on the shoulder and walked out the front doors.
    Henrik returned to his post and stood there for the rest of the day. At some point — he really wasn’t sure when it happened — the marijuana wore off and only then did he realize how high he’d been. The remaining hours of his day were a torture session revolving around staring at the clock and counting the seconds as they passed. The minute hand labored as it clicked and Henrik felt the day would never end. When it finally did, he headed home with a strange compulsion to listen to the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper and eat a plate of bacon. Neither was immediately available so Henrik listened to what he thought was a Ringo Starr solo track on the radio and ate some green ham that had been sitting in his refrigerator for a month. The song turned out to be an unmelodic Elvis Costello B -side and the ham was convincingly inedible.
    He passed out on the couch that evening, his head aching and his stomach in knots.
    Henrik awoke with a start in the middle of the night. He stood up and walked in a zombie-like state to the bathroom where he found a sample-sized packet of expired Anacin in a drawer by the sink. Henrik popped the two little white pills in his mouth, shot them down with a glass of water and brushed his teeth by the open window. He looked up into the sky and took in the stars. They were bright tonight. Even the city lights couldn’t obscure them. Had his eyes not been so tired, he could