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Do you know about drugs? Drugs? Alcohol? Cigarettes? They’re all addictive. Some people quit, they move away from their vices, thinking they’ve cleansed themselves. But what they don’t understand is that addiction doesn’t show itself until you actually come into contact with it again. Before that, in countless fantasies, the addict leaves, gives up, thinking they’ll never fall for that little thing again. They think, "I was so stupid before," and with that feeling of self-satisfaction, they walk on, strong and confident. But then, they hear or smell something, maybe it’s an accident, and suddenly they’re captive to their addiction once again. The temptation, which once seemed hopeless, now pulls them back in, and just a small taste drags them deep into the mire.
Detective Dubois’ tongue stiffened, unable to speak. He had to say something to keep the conversation going. In front of this abandoned church, he had—damn it—found a working dial phone. Should he say, “I don’t know why I called”? Or would "I miss you" be better? No, if “I miss you” means nothing to the person, if they don’t care, then it’s only going to push them away.
"I want to die," Dubois hoped that his words would appeal to the other person’s kindness. And he won. Although he didn’t remember his name, he vaguely recalled that the woman was once a kind person.
“What?”
“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” Liar, a loud voice in his head screamed. "You know why. You wanna her feel sorry for you, just like you’d pity a dog on the side of the road." But there was another voice saying loudly, "I never lied. I’ve always wanted to die. I just chose this moment to tell this poor woman, this woman I’ve been disturbing in the middle of the night. I... uh... Tequila Sunrise, Detective Dick Marlen, I’m the epitome of honesty. I’m honest, at least in front of her."
Dubois decided to ignore the clamor in his head. He greedily listened to the woman on the other end of the line, and then he thought, out of politeness or curiosity, that he should ask her name. So he did. “Who are you? Why do you sound familiar?” A man and a woman—so easy to think of the most clichéd scenarios, projected onto those old black-and-white TVs, the kind with static and noise. "Tell me, did something happen between us? You make me feel tempted. Talk to me a little more, tell me about yourself. Who are you? Are you a siren? In this chaotic universe, who can say who you really are? You could be a hydrogen atom from an explosion, or carbon from a plant. Society calls you a citizen, nature classifies you as a primate. Who’s your father? Who’s your husband? Who’s your mother?"
The answer collapsed on the other end of the phone. The voice said, “I’m Dora.”
Dora. Dora.
Dubois chewed on the name like he chewed on blueberries, the sweet and sour taste, with blue juice spilling between his teeth… Blue, blue. Harold Dubois lay at the bottom of a blue ocean, looking at the sun through the rippling water. Life was one big illusion, and Dora was the insignificant reward that came with the illusion, the stupid donkey thinking there would be more carrots, when there had only ever been that one. But Dubois didn’t die. He was still alive after Dora left, after countless sunrises. Just because living was the easiest thing to do. If you don’t die, you keep living. The phone line crackled with a sleepy voice: “Who are you? The signal’s bad.”
"Your voice is beautiful." Rather than answering “Who am I,” Dubois preferred to compliment her voice first. Her voice was soft, gentle, like seaweed floating on the surface of the blue ocean. Compliments were a quick way to establish rapport and signal goodwill. Rather than responding with an answer he’d be ashamed of, he wanted to encourage her to keep talking, to keep the conversation going. Otherwise, would he say, “I’m a detective wearing underwear, surrounded by empty bottles and the stench of sweat? I woke up in a hotel and couldn’t even find a pair of matching shoes. I’m wearing one shoe while I scavenge for bottles to pay off the hotel bill. I blackmailed a kid to get some drugs so I could get high"? No, that would sound terrible.
"..."
After a pause, Dora finally reacted: “Wait, is this really you? It’s really you…”
Dubois was more flustered than he expected. He almost wanted to drive away in his car from Martinez. "I’m not here. It’s not me. Don’t look at the real me," he thought. "I’m the revolutionary servant of humanity…” He babbled nonsense. "I’ll liberate humanity, abolish the class system…”
What’s this? Am I giving her my political views? I know that’s not our issue. Even in the Stone Age, humans lived in tribes, splitting and reuniting, leaving those they loved. There were people who left their tribes to live elsewhere, simply because staying in the tribe hurt them, broke their hearts. Dubois felt a fire in his stomach, like he was about to vomit. He’d drunk too much before, and had failed to eat on time. The alcohol had burned his stomach. Ten years later… or maybe ten months, Harold Dubois would lie in a cold grave, with no one attending his funeral, because he was a jerk. But it didn’t matter. “I’ll bring the dead back to life,” he would say, just like when he called you in the middle of the night.
The communists should be angry at Dubois’ words. Really angry. He’d just rambled on, trampling on their pursuit of justice. But that’s the truth of the world. What you hold dear is just a filler fragment for someone else’s careless words. There’s never been justice, never been truth. Violence, only violence—reality’s violence towards everyone. Dora sighed helplessly on the other end: “Harry... you’re not a revolutionary. Harry, you’re drunk…”
“I’m not drunk, and I’m not on drugs.” Detective Kim Hwa-choon is watching me closely. For the case to wrap up quickly, I haven’t touched alcohol for two days. His eyebrows dance. When they dance, I feel like I’m being controlled.
It’s hard not drinking alcohol, but I’ve made it through. I’m so clear-headed.
“I’m just… in pain…” Harold Dubois gripped his collar, trying to loosen his tight tie. Why couldn’t he breathe? His heart seemed to squeeze his blood, as if it were dying. I can’t fall here. The newspapers will report this strange incident. The whole 41st precinct will laugh for a month. When they drink coffee, they’ll pretend to have a heart attack and fall to the floor. Their legs, wrapped in suit pants, will twitch on the floor. "Why does talking to you feel so painful?" Please, be merciful and tell me the answer. Give me a hug, even if it’s from some stranger. I’d be content with that.
Dora didn’t speak. On the other end, in Minova, there was the sound of someone turning over.
"Dear, who is it?" A man’s voice asked from a distance.
"Nothing. Somebody dialed the wrong number. Back to sleep then." Dora must have covered the receiver, speaking softly.
Then, all fell silent.
“Is someone with you?” Dubois asked stubbornly, but there was no response. For a moment, Dubois felt like a beast inside him was about to leap out of his chest. He wanted to scream at the man on the other end of the phone. This is mine! Those beautiful hairs and fingers, they’re mine. Her soft breasts, they’re mine! The kiss she gives before sleep, that’s mine. It’s me who touches her legs, me who shares a roof with her, me who shares food with her.
What right do you have to say this? His brain asked, like an animal marking its territory with urine. Grow up, Harry, it’s been over.
Dubois felt acidic liquid in his mouth, whether it was old wine or moldy bread, he didn’t know. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to hang up. He hesitated and asked, “Are you still there?”
Are you still there? How embarrassing. Thankfully, Dora softly spoke on the other end: “Harry, I don’t have time… It’s already four in the morning. I have to get up in two hours.”
“Get up?What will you do after you get up?” His consciousness once again floated away from his body, and only Harold Dubois’ body remained standing in a phone booth, with a broken roof that suited him, hunched grotesquely, doing the disgusting act of making late-night international prank calls. Even more grotesque, he wouldn’t hang up, wanting to make both ends of the line awkward. We all know what happens after a mess like that. The youth slips away, and those who haven’t accumulated anything will wake up at six to work, only getting to bed at ten. The brain laughed coldly. What assets will you leave her? A double-honor detective? Maybe an old house, on your salary of no more than 5,000 reals a year? To achieve communism, to let everyone pick their favorite work, to care for everyone, for every little girl to be born, another voice retorted, arguing inside Dubois’ body. He ignored it. It had been arguing for too long, maybe since he started using Sibei. The detective simply focused on listening to Dora’s slightly distorted voice. Dora was speaking softly on the other end: “Work.”
“Where?”
“Academy... I work there now.” Good, the phone hadn’t been hung up yet. The guillotine waited for the blade to fall.
“Sounds like a better job than mine. I’m really glad.” Actually, whatever job it was, as long as Dora kept talking to him, Dubois would be happy. After all, even the worst job couldn’t be worse than being a detective. Just yesterday, he had to stick his hand into a half-rotten corpse and touch the melting gums and throat. He had to be careful not to break the body’s neck. What the hell does the police station need autopsy reports for? Only this, Dubois felt, was the one thing he’d done well while drunk. He tossed the stupid handbook into the trash. The more years he worked, the more holes his file would get. It was all so stupid. Maybe the higher-ups at the precinct celebrated that the hole didn’t land on the detective’s face. You can’t lose your gun, can’t lose your badge, can’t lose the sergeant’s manual. Dubois wanted to cry out, "I even want to lose myself. I’ve ruined everything, I’ve messed everything up. I want to lose myself..."
"Do you want to go to a party?" No, she just wants to sleep. This poor woman just wants to sleep. And what kind of party are you asking her to join? A party full of alcohol and drugs that goes all night long? Do you want her to come and watch you, watch this filthy, stinky mess of a man, who is relying on a temporary partner to sell off his spare parts just to avoid sleeping on the streets? To watch this living corpse? Do you really want her to come and see you like this?
"No, I just want to sleep."
"Do you know who I am? You sound like you know me." Let her go, let yourself go, Dubois. Is this funny? Is anyone laughing? You're still awful at this prank thing.
On the other end of the line, there was a sigh. "Is there anything we haven't talked about? Harry... It's over. It ended a long time ago."
"My heart's about to give out..."
"Don't, Harry." Dubois thought she would say something like "stop fooling around," but I, Tequila Sunrise, orange and red cocktails, burning alcohol, burning! The apocalyptic enforcer, burning as he appears on the horizon, burning! The end! Dora, I’ve never lied to you, I really am about to have a heart attack, my veins hurt so much, it must be the effect of the blood clot because I've drunk too much, I've done too many wrong things, I’m being punished. Dora, it hurts so much, please...
"I'm hanging up now, alright?" No, don't hang up, please, "I'm investigating a case, a man has been hung up." Hung up, huh? Isn't that weird? Hurry and ask me what I found, you don’t see men hanging up every day, let me tell you the secrets of the union and Wild Pine Company, let me tell you about the strike in Martinez. Are you interested in cranes? Someone lives in a container, or is it the kids you care about? I met a real little punk, don’t hang up, let me tell you about my new partner, the 41st precinct and the 57th precinct are planning a competition between their subordinates, my new partner is from the 57th, wearing a pilot jacket, you always say I don’t look like a detective, come look at my new partner... no... please!
The call was dead.
Harrier Dubois frantically shoved coins into the payphone slot, 10 minutes of lucky time left, after that, he’d have to pay for himself, there were no free calls here. He felt his feet grow cold with excitement as the coins fell into the slot. "Ding," he picked up the receiver, pressed it to his ear, and his fingers began spinning the dial. Unlike last time, this time he wasn’t relying on muscle memory; he clearly remembered each number. 001—this was the area code, then the city's code, and then pinpointing the block. Who invented phone numbers? Can a string of numbers really connect you to the person you want to reach? Or are humans being deceived by electrical signals, with the phone merely carbon particles bouncing in a diaphragm creating resistance? Then what? The resistance turns into sound. What if this mechanical system deceives humans? What if Dora was telling me to go to a party, after talking to me for so long on the phone? What if she still remembers me, remembers me for me...
Who am I fooling? Dubois stopped his fingers. In his mind, the numbers 451 came into focus, with a 67 in the middle. Yes, that’s the phone number. Who am I fooling? I dialed the phone, but she won’t pick up. The finger slid on the dialer. She left me. For that, I worked harder, rejected promotions. I thought I could forget her.
The ringing tone from the receiver seemed to mock him. Tired, ugly, and a mess of a drunk—no one is coming to answer your call anymore. Your luck is up. No more second chances, no more. The cold sea breeze blows, it’s early spring, and the snow still hasn’t melted. Why hasn’t the snow melted yet? Why is it still so cold... so cold.
▂I▂▄▅can't█▅▁▇call▇something▇▄█▂▁that doesn't exist▆.
The dial tone dragged on until the payphone automatically hung up, eating another 0.10 real in the process. Suddenly, Dubois flew into a rage. His mind, though empty of most things, still managed to conjure a few sly, grinning faces—some framed by crisp suit collars, others buried beneath hoodie hoods. They were smirking, always smirking, always trying to take the last of his coins, with excuses as flimsy and meaningless as fish blowing bubbles. And now this phone was just like them. It had tricked humanity. It only wanted to swallow a few more coins.
“I give you money because you’re supposed to give something back!” Dubois shouted, slamming his fist into the phone. His pointed dress shoe followed, kicking it hard. Normally, when he kicked a mailbox or a parking meter, his big toe would hurt so badly he’d be hopping around in pain. But today, he threw punch after punch at the treacherous machine, and strangely, he didn’t feel a thing—until he saw the blood.
Blood on the phone. His own. His knuckles were bleeding. Bleeding, he thought. He shoved in another coin. The phone should’ve learned its lesson by now. She should know—someone like me, even though I’m a wreck, getting used by everyone, scrounging for bottles to pay the bills—I’m not to be messed with. I’m a disaster, but I’m not easy to deal with. She learned that. This time, the phone would behave.
Dubois dialed again. The same empty dial tone. And again, rage overtook him. He beat the phone bloody, again. Of course, it was his blood.
———
Kim Kitsuragi returned from the precinct to find Harry crouched on the curb, hollow-eyed and vacant. The first thing that struck Kim was how much he resembled a dog that had floated down a river for a thousand miles, somehow clinging to a straw to drag itself to shore, too exhausted to shake the wet from its fur.
“The autopsy results?” Harrier Du Bois looked up with that same haunted grin—the kind of manic, shield-like smile that seemed melted onto his face. Kim shrugged; it was still being processed. He heard Harry mutter something about bureaucracy, but he decided to ignore the complaint—for now.
“You look... worse. What happened while I was gone?” Kim crouched beside him. Harry was toying with his fingers, and Kim could tell his mind was anything but still. But whatever. He was used to it now. It had only been two days, and already Kim had adapted.
“I can’t drink. Because of the case. Got a cigarette?” Harry mumbled, clawing at his hair. “Wait, I forgot.”
Most officers at the precinct were smokers. Even those who weren’t had learned to keep a pack on hand—for the others. After twelve, fifteen hours on duty, when the body and brain start to slip, a cigarette could be the difference between snapping and surviving. But Kim Kitsuragi was an exception. He carried only one cigarette a day. The control it took was terrifying. That single cigarette was his daily ritual, his moment of clarity at the end of it all. That cigarette was Kim Kitsuragi’s rational mind.
And Harrier—Harry was a man who lost his reason far too often to steal someone else's.
“Take it,” Kim said, producing a slim case that held just one cigarette. “I’ve been on the road and at the station all day. Nothing much to reflect on.”
Harry took the case, pulled out the lone cigarette, and placed it between his lips—but didn’t light it. Kim watched, realizing he probably didn’t have a lighter either. He didn’t like this version of Harry. Not even when he reeked of liquor, missing one shoe, confessing amnesia and a lost gun—that Harry had at least tried. This Harry looked hollowed out. He lit the cigarette for him. Harry stared at his own shoe tips and smoked in silence.
“You got somewhere to stay tonight? I still have some money from selling the rims…”
“Maybe. Don’t worry about me.”
Kim nodded. If Harry wasn’t going to say more, then he wouldn’t push. After all, they’d only known each other for two days. Manners kept him from asking too much more. He had to trust the man was an adult—capable of taking care of himself. Harry crushed the cigarette underfoot and told him the day was over.
Kim Kitsuragi watched as the detective’s silhouette disappeared down the street.
———
Cracked Dial-Tone Phone — Hello, Harry.
Harry — You abandoned me again. Please don’t go. I need you.
Cracked Dial-Tone Phone — I didn’t abandon you. I never abandoned anyone. It was you, Harry. You abandoned yourself. You turned our life into a nightmare. Did anyone force your hand to smash that window? Did someone shove the barrel down your throat? Every conversation—every single one—you turned into an interrogation. It was always you. You chose this life. You’re sliding into the abyss, Harry, and there’s nothing I can do to stop you.
Ancient Reptilian Brain — Sliding into the abyss is good. Very good. Very relaxing. No expectations, no disappointment, no unpleasantness. Life is a journey, and the destination lies in the abyss—and they’re having a party down there. Just slide, slide down this tube. The inside of the pipe is dazzling. Anyone can enjoy the ride.
Harry — I worked hard. I tried. I tried to live. I love you.
Cracked Dial-Tone Phone — (sighs) I know. I know you “love me.” That’s the only reason I didn’t leave sooner. Trust me, Harry, anyone would’ve been better off leaving you early on. You bring nothing but trouble. Do you know what you should do? You should throw yourself away—just like you wanted to. You’ve expired, Harry. You’re an expired detective. Expired batteries go to the bin. Why should you be an exception? You’ve done enough damage to others.
Ancient Reptilian Brain — Hold on now, that doesn’t sound entirely fair…
Harry — So this is it? This is how it ends?
Cracked Dial-Tone Phone — I’m sorry, Harry. Sorry it had to come to this. But it’s a decision that should’ve been made long ago. I’m sorry… but no one expects anything from you anymore. You know where you belong.
Ancient Reptilian Brain — I smell rotting food. It clings to you like glue. Dry, frigid air stirs your thoughts. Your muscles groan beneath your brutal reign. Where is the head? Is that a head? Where is your head?
Limbic System (Edge of Consciousness) — Life signs critical! Wake up! Wake up and don your armor, Dick Mullen—you're freezing to death—free… zing……
Harrier Du Bois opened his eyes.
Right in front of him was the rusted lid of a garbage bin. Four empty beer bottles were scattered near his head—culprits behind the violent pain in his neck. Cold wind blasted his face through the cracks. The detective could no longer feel his nose. Only the nasal cavities remained—two frozen pillars of ice.
Beneath him, the sour smell of toilet paper and fermented cheese buoyed him up. Just by his left leg, a sharp metal bar jutted out—he carefully curled his body to avoid it, planting a foot against the wall of the dumpster. Last night’s tears had dried on his face, now reduced to brittle, crusty flakes.
He was disheveled. He stank. He had finally become, through and through, a complete failure. Dubois had done it. He’d gotten worse. He’d become even more of a disappointment.
He lay back in the trash, exhausted, and closed his eyes again.
It felt like he had returned home.