It was a long shot, Skornish knew that, but the reward was too beguiling not to give it a chance. All he had to do was keep his head in the bucket for one hour. Empty room, bucket, that’s all. He didn’t believe it would remain empty — not the room, not the bucket — for the amount they were offering. How many people had won? A dozen or so, they’d said. Quick math and that’s a god damn ton of money they were throwing away on this dumb weird game. And all you had to do was be squat down, head in bucket, for an hour? Too good to be true. Still, if humiliation was the only hurdle, that wasn’t going to stop Skornish. He needed the cash too badly, and at that point in his life, there weren’t very many forms of humiliation to which he’d not been inoculated through repeated exposure.
About a week ahead of his turn, he knelt down, large bucket before him, and leaned in. He wanted to see if it were in fact physically straining to do it, and how to remedy this without lifting the head from the vessel. Indeed, his back began to ache about 10 minutes in, but he found it not very difficult to adjust and stretch and make the pain tolerable. Boredom set in, sure, but that was about the only obstacle to getting to the 60-minute mark. Too easy, Skornish thought. There’s no way.
Day of, he began to get nervous. Maybe there’s no game at all. These people are shady, after all, never revealing their faces and names. For all he knew, he was walking into a Squid Games style execution. But there was no real thought of turning back at that point. No, he was going through with it, come what may. It was honestly a decent bargain. Either his miserable life would be prematurely and mercifully ended, or he’d win and change it for the better. There was no thought of pulling his head out too soon. That he would simply not do, even if they ran up to him and started doing god-knows-what. He’d take it, hang in there, and walk off with the cash.
He entered the room according to the distorted voice on the speaker. Indeed, there was nothing in the dark room, lit uni-directionally by either moonlight or a facsimile of it through a single window. In the center of this empty classroom-looking space was a yellow bucket. Skornish felt a wave of hope pass over his chest. It looked to be identical to the bucket he’d been practicing on.
He walked over and knelt down even before the voice instructed him too, then it told him after a brief countdown, he was to fully plunge his head into the bucket, which looked to him to be absolutely empty, and hold it there until he was told the hour was completed. If he removed it, he lost, no matter what. He nodded, thinking maybe he was being watched by hidden cameras, waited for the countdown, and just as it hit 0, leaned forward, as if in prayer, until his forehead touched the limit of the bucket’s depth.
For a long while, Skornish listened to the room closely. Surely any minute now some goon would walk in and begin to torture him, or they’d pump in loud horrific noise, or a barely breathable chemical agent. But all was quiet, and nothing stirred. The only sound he could hear was the subtle near-nothing of an empty room, the occasional muffled ambiguity coming from the other side of the doors. He continued to brace himself while more time was eaten off the clock. Still there was nothing.
He had practiced guessing how much time had elapsed and found he was a pretty decent shot. By his estimation, he supposed he were close to the 45-minute mark. Unreal. What the hell was this? Was it all a test to see if someone were willing to say yes to a very sketchy setup, only to discover the rug-pull that it was nothing at all, just an absurd sort of joke? He remained vigilant. It’s not possible someone gives out this sort of cash for doing nothing, so either something was on its way or there was not a penny at the end of this, the latter an outcome he’d surprisingly never seriously considered until just then, but which seemed more certain to be the case by the second.
Then, a shift. Some subtle redistribution of the pressure in the room. It was so slight that if he hadn’t remained fully tense and alert, he would’ve missed it completely. But something did happen, though he couldn’t hear nor smell nor sense anything else. It was just, something. He stayed braced, trying to get a strong wide position to his knees and forearms, in case someone tried to pull him out or knock him over.
“What are you doing?” a voice said, so close as to be only inches from his ear.
He said nothing, only tensed and focused. Don’t tense up too much though, he admonished himself, you’ll be easier to get off balance that way.
“What the hell are you doing?” the voice repeated, more familiar this time. “Are you sick? What are you doing down there?”
That voice… It was so familiar, but he couldn’t yet place it.
“Get up before anyone sees you, my god. You look insane.”
Yes, it must be him, it’s got to be. His brother. They hadn’t spoken in years, but he now recognized that chastising tone so well he couldn’t believe he didn’t catch it sooner.
“You have a drinking problem. Or whatever you took. This is awful. You’re going to lose me my job, do you hear me? Get your god damn empty head out of that bucket.”
Had they really found his brother, Skornish wondered? Had they gone to those lengths. This was more like it. This was far more like the tricks he’d imagined they’d pull for that kind of prize money. Sure, it might literally be his brother. They paid him to do this. Brilliant. Well, too bad for them that he’d grown quite good at completely ignoring Argnau, the last few years his sibling was willing to speak to him, that is.
“Get up, get up,” he whispered loudly. “My boss is coming this way. You’re going to ruin my life, you moron.”
Ah yes, he knew just what period this tone was in too. This was late period I’ve given up on you completely Argnau. A fine vintage. This was the era just before he’d reached his wit’s end and told him to never contact him again, and that had he died in their childhood, the entire family would’ve been better off for it, blah blah. Skornish couldn’t be stung by the sentiment at this point. Over the past near-decade, he’d become totally adept at burying any feelings like that, using anything and everything to wash them away in hazes and highs. Worked quite well, actually, until he ran out of money. It was touch-and-go now. Skornish did on occasion feel a thing or two these days, and boy did he hate it.
“Who is this?” he heard an unfamiliar voice say. He hadn’t recalled ever meeting his brother’s boss. Suddenly he heard the ambience of a room full of people too, which he had to admit made him a bit nervous. How had they all taken their positions without him sensing them enter the room?
“My brother, Mr. Daunier,” said Argnau. Wow, he hadn’t heard this tone before. Subservient Argnau? Obedient Argnau? Never in his life. These actors were good. But god, did they really hire dozens of actors just for this? The prize was significant, not infinite. How would it be worth it to waste this much on theatrics and give the prize away?
“Oh, um, is something wrong with him?” said the older gentleman.
“Yes. He is feeling… Well, I’ll just be honest with you, sir, my brother has problems with substances and regularly shames the family in this way. It’s difficult, as you can imagine. We’ve tried so hard to set him on the right track, and yet… He rewards our efforts with debasing spectacles like this.”
“I had a brother like that, young man. I know too well what they can be like. And I say this knowing it didn’t get through to me right away, but you’ve got to cut him out of your life. He will continue to drag you down further and further. Cut him loose and never look back. I did, and now look at me.”
“One could only hope for a fraction of the talent and success you have, sir. If there’s any promise of it in my future, I think I will follow your advice. Tonight, perhaps.”
“Good, good. Just make sure he’s not too sick. Get him where he needs to go if he is, if you understand me.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for being so understanding.”
“I am understanding, but I won’t tolerate someone working for me with this sort of liability. Not for long. I’ve told you what to do and I trust you’ll do it.”
“I will, sir.”
“Good, good.”
Skornish could feel the older man’s look that he must be giving him just then. He’d gotten it from lots of people before. Absolute disgust. Like finding a giant insect under your trash can when you roll it towards the curb. Utter abjection.
He had to admit, it was not pleasant feeling this look on him. The designers of this contest had done well in their execution. Still, he did not feel moved to remove his head.
“I can’t believe you did that to me. Get your damn head up so I can speak to you,” his brother said, inches from his ear, barely containing his urge to scream.
“Idiot, loser, moron, parasite! I can’t believe this. He’s right. I know he’s right. Need to cut you off. And the only reason I don’t, and it’s so pathetic of me, but the only reason I don’t is that I’m certain you cannot live without me. If I go, you fall apart.”
“This won’t work,” Skornish called up from the bucket.
“I know it won’t! Nothing gets through to you.”
“I’m going to keep my head in here until the hour’s up. I’m going to win that prize money. There is nothing you can do to change that.”
Skornish wasn’t sure why he’d said that. It could only possibly serve to goad them into some worse torture. Why hadn’t he just kept his damn mouth shut and road it out? It must be getting to him, he thought. This little theater of humiliation they’re subjecting him to. He’s letting it get under his skin.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Did somebody pay you to do this? Was it Gareth? Michelle? Did somebody put a bet that you could do this asinine thing?”
“Sure, that’s good. I only wonder, are you really my brother or are you just a very talented actor? Because if you are, I just want to say, you’re incredible. You’ve got him down! You sound exactly like him.”
“I am your brother you idiot! And you really are embarrassing yourself at my party, in my house. Are you so messed up that you’ve lost track of where you are?”
“I know exactly where I am. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Fine. Stay there. Be a spectacle for every coworker, and all their spouses. Half the damn town is here. Why not just degrade yourself in front of every potential employer? That’s perfect. Then you can whine how you can’t find work anywhere.”
“I won’t need to work with the money… Nevermind.”
“I think you need more than NA at this point. I think you’ve got brain damage. You’re going to need to be an inpatient somewhere. Though good luck paying for it, because we won’t. We’re not paying for another one of those programs.”
“That’s fine. I’ll pay for it myself,” said Skornish, a shallow pool of tears involuntarily welling up as he spoke.
He heard his brother stomp off then. Recognized those defeated footsteps. He’d heard them so many times. Always when he wanted him to stay close, just to be there for him, not say anything, just put his arm around his shoulder. But he knew it was his fault. He drove him off every time he tried. He just wished they’d understand he spoke as if in a mirrored world. Stay meant go, go meant stay. He was inside out. He acted opposite his feelings, how hard was that to puzzle out! Still, it was his fault, he knew it. That’s fine. He wouldn’t have to bother any of them ever again. Not after…
How long did he have left, anyway? He completely lost his inner count from earlier. If he were near to the 45 mark, then he must be pretty much finished by then. Just a little longer and he can congratulate the actors on their great performance, tell them all how much he was affected by it, and move on to sending his family some money, along with a letter saying how great he was doing now, no thanks to them. No, he should be the bigger man and thank them for all their help. Here’s just a small token of gratitude. Yes, the high road. That’ll burn them even better.
He held still and waited, drifting in and out of eavesdropping on the conversation of the dinner guests, who for the most part seemed to be ignoring him, but every now and then would comment something like, “And what is he doing again? Why is he down there?” Then this brother would mention something about prize money, and they’d all laugh. When he wasn’t listening in on them, he was daydreaming of what he’d do with the cash, where he’d travel to, what drugs he’d buy, what company to share the drugs. Good company, this time. Classy types. He’d make new friends, even though he knew they wouldn’t be real friendships. Still, they’d be a finer variety of fake friendship than he’d had up until then.
The voice signaling the end of the contest did not come. He felt a full hour must’ve passed, his knees aching awfully, but still, no voice spoke. Perhaps this is the game. They make you stay for much longer than an hour. But no, they’d really been quite clear it was 60 minutes tops. Could it be that he was that far off with his inner count, too eager for the hour to be up, that he’d been closer to 4 minutes than 45? And had this felt-hour that had passed actually been only 20 minutes?
It was too difficult to believe. As far as he could tell, he’d been there for longer than an hour, and that wasn’t right.
“Are you guys cheating?” he called out.
No response.
“I’ve been here more than an hour! I’m sure of it! Come on!”
“Who are you talking to?” his brother asked. It startled him so much he almost fell over. He must’ve been sitting there in silence, staring at him, for a long time. By then, all the guests had gone.
“The people running the show here. They said one hour. That’s it. It has to have been longer than an hour.”
“Yes, it has. I last spoke to you an hour and forty minutes ago, almost exactly.”
“Man, I knew it. They said one hour, then I win. A lot of money. Maybe they didn’t tell you that, but it’s a lot of money on the line here.”
“Who? Which of your weird friends told you that?”
“Not my friends. Strangers. They offered it.”
“And they were here tonight? At the party?”
“No, there is no party. Stop confusing me!”
“I’m the confused one here! I want to know which of my coworkers put you up to this.”
“None! The people weren’t here. Not at your fake party.”
“Oh, so it was a fake party. That’s why you felt you could act this way.”
“No, just shut up, sorry, but I can’t talk to you right now. Tell them it’s been more an hour.”
“Tell who! You haven’t told me who!”
“You know who!”
“I can’t take this anymore! I just can’t. I can’t. I need you out of here. Now.”
“Not until they say the time’s up.”
“No Skornish, out! Now!”
“I won’t. Not until the time’s up.”
“It’s been more than an hour. I’ll be sure to tell your criminal friends that you were in it the whole hour, and then some. But I need you out of my god damn house, and out of my life! I can’t look at you anymore! It makes me too sad, and angry, and… I want to kill you. I really do.”
“Go ahead.”
“Yeah, I bet you’d like that. Maybe that’s why I haven’t taken a swing at you. I know you want me too, so badly. It’d give you another sob story for your next meeting, which you’ll only go to to meet someone who knows a good place to score.”
“Blah blah blah. You’re not my brother. I know you’re not. I know you’re not, I know it, I know it!”
“Sure, if that makes you feel better. Fine. I’m not your brother. I’m just some grown man, total stranger. And that means you’re an intruder, and I want you OUT!”
He felt his brother grab him around the chest and pull hard. He instinctually shot his hands up to the bucket and held it over his head. He hadn’t been told explicitly he was allowed to touch the bucket, but he must be if they were allowed to yank at him like that.
He let his brother hoist him to his feet, scoff at the sight of him tightly gripping the bucket in place, and practically dragged him to the door. Then he kept dragging him, down the stairs, to the entrance to the building. He heard the doorman swing the doors open.
“Taking out the trash, William,” his brother said, trying to adopt a nonchalant tone and failing miserably, sounding insane, Skornish thought.
His brother swung him to the sidewalk and the bucket nearly popped out of his hands when he hit the sidewalk, hard, but he managed to hold on.
“Get going, buddy,” the doorman said.
Skornish wouldn’t move, so he felt a new, stronger pair of hands on him, was once again pulled to his feet and shoved. He hit the pavement again, his knees making a concerning cracking sound when they smacked the concrete.
“Wait, wait. You’ve taken me out of the room. You weren’t supposed to do that!”
“Out of the room, out of the building. Get lost!”
He could hear traffic going by. Heard pedestrians’ hurried steps. This part of town, they must think he’s some drunk or lunatic or both. He could practically sense the fur coats being clutched tight.
“I was supposed to stay in the room. Why does it feel like I’m outside?”
“This guy’s lost it,” he heard one doorman say to the other, or to someone else. His brother, it seemed, had already gone back inside.
“You are outside, bucket head,” the doorman said, and he heard a few men laugh.
“I was… Well, the hour’s been up, so who cares! I’ve won! Tell them to call it already!”
“I’ll be calling the cops next if you don’t get your ass away from this building. Move it!”
Skornish struggled to his feet, the pain shooting wildly through the nerves of his knees.
What the hell was going on, exactly? Did this mean the whole thing was just a hoax? Or did they have some way to make that room feel like he’d gone outside? It’s just that it really felt like his brother, or the man pretending to be him, had really dragged him out of some room, down a hallway, and so on. It all felt so real, too real.
Oh god, Skornish thought, is any of this really happening? Had there ever really been a contest? Did I imagine the whole damn thing passed out at my brother’s dinner party?
His grasp on what was tangible, along with what was possible to do with that which is tangible, had slipped entirely.
I have to take the bucket off, he thought. But what if had been a trick? What if I’m almost there and about to ruin it all by taking it off just now? No, it’s been longer than an hour. There’s no way it’s been under an hour. No possible way!
He decided to rip the bandaid off, end the torment that was only getting worse the more he tried to sort it internally. Slowly, he raised the bucket, hoping that if the voice were to call out, it would happen in time that he’d still have enough of his head in it to win.
No voice called out, and the first thing he saw when he lifted the bucket off his head was a brick wall. He was outside, that much was certain. Further, it looked to be his brother’s building. Oh god, he thought, it can’t be I made that whole thing up. There’s no way I just did that for real, in front of all those people. No way.
He wondered if he should go straight to psychiatric hospital. Even the possibility that he imagined all of that meant his mind must be in worse shape than he’d even thought. It frightened him deeply to think he himself capable of being that uncertain of what’s imagined and what is really happening. Of what he might be capable in this confused state of mind? What awful things he might have he already done?
Skornish staggered down the street, bucket in hand. He held it tight, as if it were his last link to reality. The bucket had been in the room, at the start of the contest. Somehow, by some means he could not comprehend, he’d been transported elsewhere, to another room, in his brother’s building. He thought to go back to the building, to run up the stairs and see his brother and try to explain the whole thing, but the doormen would not let him through, and it was clear they were willing to get quite violent with him at that point should he persist.
He found a public phone to call Argnau, his cell phone having been sold long ago, but there was no answer. Of course, last he remembered his brother was telling him he never wanted to speak with him again, and essentially that scenario had played out just now, again, or perhaps for the first time, in only a slightly different way.
He tried then to find the site of the contest, but couldn’t for the life of him remember how to get there, especially from that part of the town, which was much further north than he’d remembered being earlier.
What could he do but stagger back to his room. Yes, he still had a home, a bed. It was a studio apartment his family had purchased. They meant for it to be a shared space for the kids, a temporary place to crash between moves, or during fights with future significant others, whatever they wanted. It had never been meant to be occupied by only one of their children, but of course they felt it was better than having him on the street, even if his behavior had gotten them into tremendous trouble with the co-op board dozens of times over.
Skornish laid on his back in his bed, bucket still held like a football under his left arm. His ribs ached from being kicked by one of the doormen. His knees were badly hurt from when he fell. It had been terribly painful to carry himself home, drag himself to the freezer and pull out whatever he had to ice the majority of his back and lower body.
He stared at the ceiling trying to make sense of it all, unable to stack more than a few fragments in sequence before it all blurred again.
His landline ringing snapped him from his spiraling thoughts. He flinched wildly at the robotic vibrato.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hi, it’s me,” the voice said. It was Argnau. “I’m sorry it’s been a while.”
“Has it been a while?”
“God, you’re high right now, aren’t you?”
“No, it’s… What’s up?”
“I just felt bad, about earlier,” his brother said. It was not immediately clear when exactly he meant, but Skornish didn’t wish to ask. Here was one of his brother’s tones that he enjoyed hearing, even if it eventually changed into something more hostile. This time he felt resolved to avoid hastening to that transformation.
“I shouldn’t have said all that to you… When I said all that stuff… I’m just… I’m always trying my best, and I just don’t know if you are, but maybe you are, I don’t know. I just don’t know. Anyway, I just felt I should call.”
“I’m glad you called. It means a lot. I know I’ve… I don’t know what’s been going on. I really don’t. I know it’s up to me to figure it out though. And, uh… I’m going to, you know? I will. I promise, I will figure it out,” said Skornish, trying to choose his words as carefully as he was capable.
“Well, that’s something, I guess.”
A different beep cut his brother off. Another call was coming in.
“I’m sorry, I have to… There’s another call coming in that I need to take, maybe. Can I call you back?”
“Sure.”
Skornish frantically searched for the button to switch over. He didn’t want to lose this call, feeling instinctually certain that it was important. After all, he never got any calls on that line. He was so off the social map that not even spam and robocalls found him there.
He found what he thought was the button to switch and held his breath as he pressed it.
“Hello?” he asked.
There was nothing at first, only a faintly familiar and almost untraceable ambient hiss.
“Hello?”
“…”
Everything went dark then, and panic swelled up around his bruised ribs.
“The hour is complete. Congratulations.”
Click.
Dark. Then, a light. A faint light.
His neck ached, his back, his knees.
He straightened his spine and a room appeared before him, but it was not his apartment.
It was the empty classroom.
He looked down and saw the empty bucket. A light had come on in the room, overhead and fluorescent. The bucket’s yellow looked desaturated and sickly.
Skornish struggled to his knees then, his mind racing to catch up to what his eyes were telling him. How, he thought, how could that all have happened there? Had he fallen asleep?
His ribs throbbed. He stopped to lift his shirt and examine them. They were covered with bruises. His knees bleeding through his torn slacks. They were wet, still wet! It smelled like nothing. Rain? Could that be rain soaked up from wet pavement?
He staggered over to the door, threw it open and stared at the miserable waiting room which he’d passed on his way in. He stood there, twisting his neck up and down to loosen it up and think, think! How?
Soon, he gave up. It was just like earlier, but worse. A few fragments at most. Broken sequences.
He walked out, slowly, weary in a vague way. Here is when they’d pop out and murder him, he thought. But no one came. He left unhindered.
On the way home, he found a bodega, inserted his card into the ATM. Checking account. Check balance.
He nearly screamed at the sight of it. All those decimal points. Far more than even his parents ever had on one of their ATM receipts.
Later, lying on his bed, this time feeling a bit more certain that he was really there, he stared once more at the ceiling, mind as empty as the room in which he’d apparently sat, head fully in a bucket, for only one hour which felt like an entire night, and as strangely full as that room had seemed too, thoughts buzzing like the voices of party guests engaged in dozens of unintelligible conversations.
The digital vibrato sounded off, startled him less this time.
“Hello?” he spoke into its plastic receiver.
“Hi, it’s me,” spoke his brother’s voice. “I’m sorry it’s been a while…”