The shower woke Jason out of a contented, if not wholly sound sleep.
The hotel room was dim, the blinds closed. The plumbing was deafening, he could almost see the water running through the walls. Jason lay naked in the queen sized bed, naked and partially covered by a sheet. It was hot in here, too hot to worry about blankets. Jason reached over to the nightstand and picked up his watch. He had been asleep for less than four hours, and his head hurt.
Jason reached down a scratched his balls. Kate would be done with her shower soon, she would want to fuck one more time before he left. He smiled at that thought. It was so simple with her. It reminded him so much of what it had been like when he had started with Sara. There was no pressure, absolutely no thoughts to the future, just the moment. This felt good, really good, right now. There was no tomorrow, not unanswered commitments for eternity, no pressure of age, no responsibilities beyond each other.
He sure as fuck missed that, the simple ease of youthful lust, the ignorant bliss of it all. That was why he was here, he knew, trying to have the past and the present together, the best of both worlds. He loved Sara, so much that it seemed more painful that their relationship had degraded into a…business arrangement, a retirement plan.
The sounds of the liquid torrent running through the walls ceased abruptly. Jason grabbed the bottle of Jameson off the nightstand and took a small pull to quiet his headache. The bathroom door opened with a crunch, and there she was.
Kate stood there, her body glistening, her long brown hair wet and hanging in her face. She was tussling her hair with a towel, her smile beaming at him. Sara had had long hair like that once, but she had decided it was too much of a hassle to maintain, and had cut it years earlier. It looked ok, but Jason had never really taken to it.
“That shower is fucking awesome. It’s like a fucking fire hose,” she said, “and hotter than you can stand.”
It was usually like that in these old places, old plumbing from when water was free.
“We’ve stayed at this Hotel…how many times?” Jason asked, “and you always point that out.”
Kate rolled her eyes.
“Do you have to remember everything I say?” she said, smiling with only one side of her mouth.
Jason felt himself getting turned on. That coy little smile was better than Viagra. She stood there naked, drying her hair, unabashed, her body the picture of effortless youthful perfection. She was slender, but well built, her small breasts seemed huge on her small frame.
She threw the towel into the bathroom and rushed the bed. She jumped and landed on top of Jason, staring at him deeply before she kissed him. Jason kissed her back, and decided this would be the last time he would fuck her.
It was about an eight hour drive from Reno to Las Vegas.
Jason didn’t even turn his phone back on until about half way. He always turned it off until he was too far away to turn back. He didn’t like cheating on his wife, and he liked it even less when he had to hear her voice while he did it. In a disgusting way he was fucking Kate because she reminded him of Sara. “Honey, I only fucked her because she reminds me of how you used to be. I only fuck her because I miss that you.”
It sounded like bullshit, even to him.
He looked down at the phone; fifteen messages. That was a lot, more than usual certainly. The first couple were from Sara, telling him she loved him and keeping him abreast of all kinds of bills and bullshit with her sister. God, he didn’t care. So much about their life he just didn’t give a fuck about. He wanted to cut all that shit away.
Then there was a message from Naomi, Sara’s sister. Naomi was a fucking pain in the ass. She thought Jason was a useless fuck, and loved to point that opinion out at every given opportunity. Why was she calling him?
He listened to the first message, apparently his wife was in the hospital, and things were not ok. The proceeding messages were all just, “Where the fuck are you?” and “You useless fuck!” The last one was a message from Kate telling him she loved him and missed him already.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Off the Wagon, Part 6: The Best Laid Plans
The kidnapping was not going very well.
The little bitch was supposed to be here. She wasn’t, but she was supposed to be. She was supposed to have the chicken pox, home alone for the whole week while her parents were at work. She was only six and the rich fucks didn’t even spring for a baby sitter. They had watched the house for the past two days, and in both cases she just sat in the house, by herself, watching TV. Today however…
Tommy and Dale stood in the living room of a multi-million dollar house. Dale was leaning on the marble bar, a drink in his left hand. Probably whiskey, Jesus, Dale thought to himself. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and the alcoholic bastard was already at it.
“What are we going to do, Dale?” Tommy asked, his voice flat, “We can’t go to Booker empty handed. This was our last chance, we can’t pay him back any other way.”
“I fucking know that you asshole. But what the fuck am I going to do? Speak some magic words and make the little slut appear out of mid air?” Dale’s eyes tightened and his lips became more firm, “We’ve searched this whole goddamn house, she’d just not fucking here.”
“I didn’t ask you to restate the obvious, I asked what we’re going to do. Without that girl, we are dead. Tortured first, of course. Then dead. We have to find her. She has to be somewhere, how far can a little girl get without a car. She’s go to be somewhere in the neighborhood,” Tommy said before her finished what must have been at least two shots of whiskey.
“We know for sure she didn’t go with her parents today?”
“She was here when I left to come get you. I’m sure of it,” he said.
Tommy reached under the counter and poured another double.
“Go easy on that shit, man, fuck,” Dale said.
“Fuck you,” was Tommy’s only reply.
Dale’s anger flared, but he kept it in check. Tommy was right. She had to be somewhere. It would not be good to be seen driving around the neighborhood. The less they were seen ion the area the better. They were robbing Peter to pay Paul, and both of the bastards were violent, dangerous people. It would be all over if they were identified. Of course it hadn’t even started yet, or maybe it was already over, either way both of their worthless lives hinged on a little pigtailed bitch that just happened to be very connected.
“Let’s wait here few more hours, hopefully she’ll come home before her parents do. If she’s not here in two hours we go looking for her.”
Tommy nodded and Dale asked for some whiskey.
The little bitch was supposed to be here. She wasn’t, but she was supposed to be. She was supposed to have the chicken pox, home alone for the whole week while her parents were at work. She was only six and the rich fucks didn’t even spring for a baby sitter. They had watched the house for the past two days, and in both cases she just sat in the house, by herself, watching TV. Today however…
Tommy and Dale stood in the living room of a multi-million dollar house. Dale was leaning on the marble bar, a drink in his left hand. Probably whiskey, Jesus, Dale thought to himself. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and the alcoholic bastard was already at it.
“What are we going to do, Dale?” Tommy asked, his voice flat, “We can’t go to Booker empty handed. This was our last chance, we can’t pay him back any other way.”
“I fucking know that you asshole. But what the fuck am I going to do? Speak some magic words and make the little slut appear out of mid air?” Dale’s eyes tightened and his lips became more firm, “We’ve searched this whole goddamn house, she’d just not fucking here.”
“I didn’t ask you to restate the obvious, I asked what we’re going to do. Without that girl, we are dead. Tortured first, of course. Then dead. We have to find her. She has to be somewhere, how far can a little girl get without a car. She’s go to be somewhere in the neighborhood,” Tommy said before her finished what must have been at least two shots of whiskey.
“We know for sure she didn’t go with her parents today?”
“She was here when I left to come get you. I’m sure of it,” he said.
Tommy reached under the counter and poured another double.
“Go easy on that shit, man, fuck,” Dale said.
“Fuck you,” was Tommy’s only reply.
Dale’s anger flared, but he kept it in check. Tommy was right. She had to be somewhere. It would not be good to be seen driving around the neighborhood. The less they were seen ion the area the better. They were robbing Peter to pay Paul, and both of the bastards were violent, dangerous people. It would be all over if they were identified. Of course it hadn’t even started yet, or maybe it was already over, either way both of their worthless lives hinged on a little pigtailed bitch that just happened to be very connected.
“Let’s wait here few more hours, hopefully she’ll come home before her parents do. If she’s not here in two hours we go looking for her.”
Tommy nodded and Dale asked for some whiskey.
Off the Wagon, Part 5: Meeting new People.
He died for nothing.
Literally he died for fifty-two dollars, a credit card with a four hundred dollar limit, and a list of phone numbers he would never call again. He had thought his wallet was worth his life. It was fucked up that this man was willing to lose his life over a hunk of cow skin and a few pieces of paper and plastic.
Paul looked down on the body he had just killed. The man was no more than twenty-five or thirty. His suit was cheap, but fit him well and he had a mullet haircut., bleached blond. He must have been on a date. Men of any age were morons when they had a woman with them. He should have known better, Booker had always told him to watch out for the hero types.
The girl had fainted at the sight of the gun, Paul would have never hurt her, he didn’t do things like that. She was pretty, but past her prime. He wouldn’t have hurt the guy either if he hadn’t been such an asshole.
Paul had never killed anyone before, well there had been another, but never sober. He had threatened to hundreds of times, but he had never had to prove his sincerity. He looked at the blood that was spreading out from under the man’s body, turning the concrete red. There was no going back now, he had crossed a line.
Paul put the money in his coat pocket and disappeared down an alley way.
He needed a drink. He had always been partial to vodka.
Paul always remembered that night ten years ago when he drank vodka.
Once upon a time it had been his favorite. He had been all of sixteen when he had killed that man. Consequently he never drank vodka again. But the girl he was talking to did. He could smell it wafting through her breath, it was subtle, but it was there.
The girl on the street had been blonde, just like Jodie was. Paul wondered if she would shut up if he told her the story. She had been talking non-stop for almost an hour. She was getting a promotion or something, she was genuinely excited to work in an office. No, her name wasn’t Jodie, it was Jesse. Actually looking forward to a bigger cubicle. Fuck, it started with a J, or a G. He had already asked her three times what her name was.
Jennifer? Was that it? No, it was a short name. Paul listened to her, smiling at the right times, putting on a mask of attention. She was lonely, he could tell. She looked as if she was about thirty-five, with a dirty blond short suburban mom haircut. She was too skinny, and her voice had a lifetime smoking habit accent. She just wanted to talk with someone and celebrate her good luck, and unfortunately to share her entire life story. He had another two hours to wait with nothing better to do, so he humored her.
“So, tell me about you. What do you do?” she said.
She had finally run out of verbal vomit. To spew at his uninterest.
“I’m between jobs at the moment,” Paul said as he indicated to the bartender he wanted another beer.
“What did you do before?’
“Before what?”
“Before you became between jobs?”
“I was a manager at the Wendy’s down on Jefferson St.”
“Really, that sounds interesting, why did you quit?”
“I got fired.”
“Why?”
“I never charged for cheese.”
“They fired you for that?”
“Yeah. That and I masturbated in the bathroom on my lunchbreak.”
That image made her smile. It almost made her attractive for a second.
“You’re full of shit,” she said moving her chair a hint closer to him.
“Yeah, the truth just isn’t that interesting.”
“Come on what’s the truth?”
“I was a Priest.”
She rolled her eyes, “If you don’t want to tell me just say so.”
“You know that church down on 52nd street?”
“The one next to the circle K?”
“That’s the one. That was mine. Prince of Peace, United Methodist church. I stopped believing in God.”
He could see it in her face, she didn’t know what to say. It was hard to Tell when Paul was lying. He smiled inwardly to himself. Paul’s father had been a priest, that was close enough to the truth.
The bartender set a phone down on the bar in front of Paul.
“It’s for you,” he said.
“Excuse me,” Paul told Sarah? Synthia? “I have to take this.”
Paul got up and headed for the back of the bar, by the pay phones. It was probably Calvin.
“Hello?”
“What’s up? How’re you fuckin’ doing?”
It was Calvin, he was unable to speak without swearing.
“I am having the time of my life. These single’s bars are great to sit in for hours at a time. It’s like some kind of premonition of hell.”
“I could have sent you to a fucking titty bar, but being a fag and all I figured you would fuckin’ like this bar better,” Paul could practically see Calvin’s annoying sneer, the one he always had when he thought he was funny.
“What’s the deal?”
“Why are you so fuckin’ serious all of a fuckin’ sudden?” Calvin laughed, “Kyle will be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Fucking A Calvin, you know I hate that fuck. Why do you delight in tormenting me with all this bullshit.”
“He’s good and you know it, put your fuckin’ personal feelings aside and fucking do what you’re told.”
“You send someone else, Kyle is a retard and I won’t put my personal safety in his hands.”
“Shut the fuck up. You want the money, you’ll fuckin’ do what I say. He’ll be there soon,” Calvin hung up the phone.
Paul turned the phone off and went to the bathroom. There were four toilets, and seven people in the bathroom. Men waiting in line to pee, what was the world coming to? Paul turned to the sink and turned on the faucet and put his finger into the stream to test the temperature. After a few seconds the water was cold.
Cupping his hands, Paul splashed the water onto his face and closed his eyes. The water woke him up. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Kyle.
That fuckface was bad news. To him it was not a job. It was a hobby, something fun to pass the time. Working with him meant you were going to do something really fucked up, something most people might choke up on. One thing was certain, if Kyle was on the job, someone was going to die.
Paul walked to the paper towel dispenser, only to discover that it was a hot air blower. How was he supposed to dry his face. He’d look like an asshole putting his head under the thing.
Silently cursing technology, Paul went back to his seat at the bar, his face wet. Janet was still there.
Sharon had written her name on a napkin along with her phone number. Travis told her he would call her, but he had been lying.
Kyle had signaled Travis from the door. He had not said anything yet. They got into his car, took off down the road, and still he was silent. He was sulking Travis realized.
“What’s up your ass?” Travis asked.
“Some sonofafuck kidnapped my Goddaughter. Some perverted, twisted, nazi assfuck, cut off three of her fingers, and ransomed her for a hundred large,” Kyle said.
“You’re Goddaughter is Sarah Gordan, isn’t she, who would be that fucking stupid?”
“I don’t know. But when we find them they won’t be stupid for much longer.”
No doubt of that. Sarah Gordan was the daughter of Eric Gordan, who everybody including his wife called Mr. Gordan. Mr. Gordan was a legendary crime boss from out east that had been forced to go into hiding and move his business somewhere new. He was older now, and had many legitimate businesses, but he had just as many illegal ones. He was also a mean son of a bitch. No one fucked with him or his own, and Sarah was his little princess. He loved her more than anything.
“Do we have any idea where these fuckers are?” Paul asked.
“I just got done talking to Mr. Gordan. He said he got a lead that they were up in Pinewood.”
“Pinewood? That shit hole.”
“Yep, it’s those damn kids with no parents to beat the shit out of them. Teach them right and wrong.”
OR to teach them not to fuck with men like Mr. Gordan.
Literally he died for fifty-two dollars, a credit card with a four hundred dollar limit, and a list of phone numbers he would never call again. He had thought his wallet was worth his life. It was fucked up that this man was willing to lose his life over a hunk of cow skin and a few pieces of paper and plastic.
Paul looked down on the body he had just killed. The man was no more than twenty-five or thirty. His suit was cheap, but fit him well and he had a mullet haircut., bleached blond. He must have been on a date. Men of any age were morons when they had a woman with them. He should have known better, Booker had always told him to watch out for the hero types.
The girl had fainted at the sight of the gun, Paul would have never hurt her, he didn’t do things like that. She was pretty, but past her prime. He wouldn’t have hurt the guy either if he hadn’t been such an asshole.
Paul had never killed anyone before, well there had been another, but never sober. He had threatened to hundreds of times, but he had never had to prove his sincerity. He looked at the blood that was spreading out from under the man’s body, turning the concrete red. There was no going back now, he had crossed a line.
Paul put the money in his coat pocket and disappeared down an alley way.
He needed a drink. He had always been partial to vodka.
Paul always remembered that night ten years ago when he drank vodka.
Once upon a time it had been his favorite. He had been all of sixteen when he had killed that man. Consequently he never drank vodka again. But the girl he was talking to did. He could smell it wafting through her breath, it was subtle, but it was there.
The girl on the street had been blonde, just like Jodie was. Paul wondered if she would shut up if he told her the story. She had been talking non-stop for almost an hour. She was getting a promotion or something, she was genuinely excited to work in an office. No, her name wasn’t Jodie, it was Jesse. Actually looking forward to a bigger cubicle. Fuck, it started with a J, or a G. He had already asked her three times what her name was.
Jennifer? Was that it? No, it was a short name. Paul listened to her, smiling at the right times, putting on a mask of attention. She was lonely, he could tell. She looked as if she was about thirty-five, with a dirty blond short suburban mom haircut. She was too skinny, and her voice had a lifetime smoking habit accent. She just wanted to talk with someone and celebrate her good luck, and unfortunately to share her entire life story. He had another two hours to wait with nothing better to do, so he humored her.
“So, tell me about you. What do you do?” she said.
She had finally run out of verbal vomit. To spew at his uninterest.
“I’m between jobs at the moment,” Paul said as he indicated to the bartender he wanted another beer.
“What did you do before?’
“Before what?”
“Before you became between jobs?”
“I was a manager at the Wendy’s down on Jefferson St.”
“Really, that sounds interesting, why did you quit?”
“I got fired.”
“Why?”
“I never charged for cheese.”
“They fired you for that?”
“Yeah. That and I masturbated in the bathroom on my lunchbreak.”
That image made her smile. It almost made her attractive for a second.
“You’re full of shit,” she said moving her chair a hint closer to him.
“Yeah, the truth just isn’t that interesting.”
“Come on what’s the truth?”
“I was a Priest.”
She rolled her eyes, “If you don’t want to tell me just say so.”
“You know that church down on 52nd street?”
“The one next to the circle K?”
“That’s the one. That was mine. Prince of Peace, United Methodist church. I stopped believing in God.”
He could see it in her face, she didn’t know what to say. It was hard to Tell when Paul was lying. He smiled inwardly to himself. Paul’s father had been a priest, that was close enough to the truth.
The bartender set a phone down on the bar in front of Paul.
“It’s for you,” he said.
“Excuse me,” Paul told Sarah? Synthia? “I have to take this.”
Paul got up and headed for the back of the bar, by the pay phones. It was probably Calvin.
“Hello?”
“What’s up? How’re you fuckin’ doing?”
It was Calvin, he was unable to speak without swearing.
“I am having the time of my life. These single’s bars are great to sit in for hours at a time. It’s like some kind of premonition of hell.”
“I could have sent you to a fucking titty bar, but being a fag and all I figured you would fuckin’ like this bar better,” Paul could practically see Calvin’s annoying sneer, the one he always had when he thought he was funny.
“What’s the deal?”
“Why are you so fuckin’ serious all of a fuckin’ sudden?” Calvin laughed, “Kyle will be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Fucking A Calvin, you know I hate that fuck. Why do you delight in tormenting me with all this bullshit.”
“He’s good and you know it, put your fuckin’ personal feelings aside and fucking do what you’re told.”
“You send someone else, Kyle is a retard and I won’t put my personal safety in his hands.”
“Shut the fuck up. You want the money, you’ll fuckin’ do what I say. He’ll be there soon,” Calvin hung up the phone.
Paul turned the phone off and went to the bathroom. There were four toilets, and seven people in the bathroom. Men waiting in line to pee, what was the world coming to? Paul turned to the sink and turned on the faucet and put his finger into the stream to test the temperature. After a few seconds the water was cold.
Cupping his hands, Paul splashed the water onto his face and closed his eyes. The water woke him up. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Kyle.
That fuckface was bad news. To him it was not a job. It was a hobby, something fun to pass the time. Working with him meant you were going to do something really fucked up, something most people might choke up on. One thing was certain, if Kyle was on the job, someone was going to die.
Paul walked to the paper towel dispenser, only to discover that it was a hot air blower. How was he supposed to dry his face. He’d look like an asshole putting his head under the thing.
Silently cursing technology, Paul went back to his seat at the bar, his face wet. Janet was still there.
Sharon had written her name on a napkin along with her phone number. Travis told her he would call her, but he had been lying.
Kyle had signaled Travis from the door. He had not said anything yet. They got into his car, took off down the road, and still he was silent. He was sulking Travis realized.
“What’s up your ass?” Travis asked.
“Some sonofafuck kidnapped my Goddaughter. Some perverted, twisted, nazi assfuck, cut off three of her fingers, and ransomed her for a hundred large,” Kyle said.
“You’re Goddaughter is Sarah Gordan, isn’t she, who would be that fucking stupid?”
“I don’t know. But when we find them they won’t be stupid for much longer.”
No doubt of that. Sarah Gordan was the daughter of Eric Gordan, who everybody including his wife called Mr. Gordan. Mr. Gordan was a legendary crime boss from out east that had been forced to go into hiding and move his business somewhere new. He was older now, and had many legitimate businesses, but he had just as many illegal ones. He was also a mean son of a bitch. No one fucked with him or his own, and Sarah was his little princess. He loved her more than anything.
“Do we have any idea where these fuckers are?” Paul asked.
“I just got done talking to Mr. Gordan. He said he got a lead that they were up in Pinewood.”
“Pinewood? That shit hole.”
“Yep, it’s those damn kids with no parents to beat the shit out of them. Teach them right and wrong.”
OR to teach them not to fuck with men like Mr. Gordan.
Off the Wagon, Part 4: A Woman Scorned
Cara sat out by her pool in her white bikini. The pool was empty, and the air had a nip to it. The sun was in the center of the sky, and there was no wind, but it was still cold. Cara suffered through it, she refused to loose her tan just because of a seasonal inconvenience. Tanning beds were out of the question, she hated them. She didn’t tan right in those things. Beauty was worth a little discomfort.
It was around noon that she got the call from Travis asking if she wanted to go out to lunch. She told him she would cook him something if he came over around one. He had agreed.
He would have eaten her shit if she asked him to.
Travis was a nice enough guy. They got along really well, but he had no future, no ambition, no money. No chance. He was happy drifting through life, accepting what came like a boat with no rudder. Still, it made her feel good about herself that he loved her. He would never have betrayed Joey like he did, if she had not insisted. No loyalty could withstand the sledge hammer of lust. She needed to bring him closer to her, to shove him deeper into her pocket. He had been getting frustrated and was about to forget her, but fucking him would keep him guessing for a long time.
She had broken it off with Joey. He had everything Travis did not, but he was boring her, and she needed a break. Some time to sucker Joey back into her pocket as well. She would go back to him in about a month, and he would never risk losing her again. She could have anything she wanted. He owed her a debt that could never be repaid in anything but revenge.
Joey had been mad. She had really tempted fate by leaving him. She knew him well enough to know he would erupt, and he very well might have killed her. But he did not. He held all of his fire in his eyes, and had calmly left the room. That scared her even more than if he had blown up.
Cara got out of her chair and put on her robe. It wouldn’t hurt to be almost naked when Travis got there. She loved to watch him squirm. Fuck them both. Fuck all men. Cara was pretty, she knew it, and she resented what that meant. She was stupid, a fun little wet hole with tits that was used to make a man feel good, and to make other men jealous. To Cara her appearance was a tool. No one would ask a carpenter to build a house without a hammer, she could not exploit men without her body.
There was a knock at the door followed by a male, “Hello?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Cara said.
Joey would pay for what he had done to her.
Unfortunately, so would Travis.
It was around noon that she got the call from Travis asking if she wanted to go out to lunch. She told him she would cook him something if he came over around one. He had agreed.
He would have eaten her shit if she asked him to.
Travis was a nice enough guy. They got along really well, but he had no future, no ambition, no money. No chance. He was happy drifting through life, accepting what came like a boat with no rudder. Still, it made her feel good about herself that he loved her. He would never have betrayed Joey like he did, if she had not insisted. No loyalty could withstand the sledge hammer of lust. She needed to bring him closer to her, to shove him deeper into her pocket. He had been getting frustrated and was about to forget her, but fucking him would keep him guessing for a long time.
She had broken it off with Joey. He had everything Travis did not, but he was boring her, and she needed a break. Some time to sucker Joey back into her pocket as well. She would go back to him in about a month, and he would never risk losing her again. She could have anything she wanted. He owed her a debt that could never be repaid in anything but revenge.
Joey had been mad. She had really tempted fate by leaving him. She knew him well enough to know he would erupt, and he very well might have killed her. But he did not. He held all of his fire in his eyes, and had calmly left the room. That scared her even more than if he had blown up.
Cara got out of her chair and put on her robe. It wouldn’t hurt to be almost naked when Travis got there. She loved to watch him squirm. Fuck them both. Fuck all men. Cara was pretty, she knew it, and she resented what that meant. She was stupid, a fun little wet hole with tits that was used to make a man feel good, and to make other men jealous. To Cara her appearance was a tool. No one would ask a carpenter to build a house without a hammer, she could not exploit men without her body.
There was a knock at the door followed by a male, “Hello?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Cara said.
Joey would pay for what he had done to her.
Unfortunately, so would Travis.
Off the Wagon, Part 3: Having it all Means Nothing.
Joey looked down at the girl in his bed.
She was beautiful, tall, blonde, deviant. She fucked like the whore she was, using her sex like a drill to mine for gold. Her name was…unimportant. She was as hot as Cara, only Cara was a brunette. They were all the same really, he felt no connection with any of them. This one was not the first, last, or only girl to sleep under his gaze. He had the best one there was, Cara was certainly what any sane man would kill for, and having her made Joey happy, even if she herself did not.
Joey wondered if he was capable of feeling an emotion as complex as love. Certainly it was a feeling that begged for inspiration, but he found human relations to be too sinister to allow any sort of trust.
Joey reached over and shook the blond girl awake. He eyes opened groggily and she smiled.
“I don’t know if I can take it again,” she said, pulling back the covers with practiced purpose. Her naked body was half lit by the rising sun, and she knew it was a striking image. Her posture did not indicate that she was in any doubt of her ability to fuck again.
“Go home,” Joey said flatly and got out of bed.
He felt, rather than saw her smile fade, along with her alluring pose. She would fuck him all day if he said so, all night too. She would probably do anything he told her to if she thought he might buy her something.
“Is your girlfriend coming home?” she said, a slight scorn accented her tone.
“Yes, so get the fuck out of my house.”
She got up and dressed without another word. Joey went into the bathroom and got in the shower before she was even out of his bed.
The hot water did nothing to cool his mood. There was something deeply wrong. He no longer found pleasure in any thing he did. There was no reason to complain, he had everything any person had the right to ask for. But just like everyone else on the planet he wanted something more. It was an awful feeling when he realized that he already had everything.
Joey was stuck in a rut he needed a break in the routine. He needed to get out of his skin, do something crazy. He needed to feel alive.
The bathroom was hot with steam from the shower. Joey stepped in front of the mirror and wiped the condensation away with his towel. He looked fine. He might need a shave, but otherwise there were no problems. He would have given all the money in the world to have a mirror that would reflect what was wrong with him.
The phone rang.
It was Travis.
It had been Joey’s idea to kidnap the girl.
The girl was dead, there was no reason to let it be a senseless event, with no good to come out of it. What would be the harm in making a few dollars?
“What the fuck does that mean?” Travis had asked.
“It means shut up, take my truck and tow that wrecked piece of shit into the fucking lake,” he had answered.
Travis had done as he was told, knowing that something was amiss. He had chalked it up to nerves, but…
Travis had returned to Joey’s house to find that he had just been fucked, his nerves had been right. Helping out a friend was one thing. Given the circumstances and possible misinterpretation of the situation, helping Ryan was the right thing to do for a friend. Then Joey took it too far. He always took things too far. Maybe just a tiny step at first, but by the time he was done, you had taken an Olympic long jump into trouble. That was the problem with rich kids. They had no parents, no morals, and a lot of time to think up ways to get their friends in shit. Idle hands where the devils playground.
Joey seemed to like to watch people suffer. It was strange because Joey and Travis had been friends for as long as either could remember, and Joey would die for Travis, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to help him. He had demonstrated his loyalty more than a hundred times. Travis trusted him with his life. There was a powerful bond between the two, but Travis had yet to see even an ounce of compassion in Joey for anyone else. Joey could be very charismatic when he needed to be. He was very good at acting like a nice person, compassionate and gentle. That was not his true nature. That was the lie everyone believed was him.
Half the reason they were such good friends was that Travis admired his misanthropy and bitterness, even shared it. But he did not revel in it. Not like Joey did. But part of being friends was taking the good with the bad.
Now the bad included seven tiny fingers and a wad of bloody blonde hair.
Joey knew who the girl was, and said her family was rich enough to afford a sizeable ransom. Ryan was all for the idea in a second. Lazy and greedy as fuck, Ryan would do anything easy for money. Travis wanted nothing to do with the plan, but they needed his help. Joey needed three people for his plan. He needed one person to make the demands, one person to collect the money, and one person, unaffiliated with the plan to launder the money while the heat was somewhere else.
There was no reason why Joey needed any of this money, Travis knew. He was doing it just to fuck with people. To squeeze every last drop of pain and heartbreak out of this tragedy. His eyes were venomous with hate, and Travis wasn’t sure what was going on here. Come to think of it, this was extreme even for Joey’s psychosis.
But Travis said ok. He said goodbye, the plan called for him to be unaffiliated with either of them for at least two weeks. Besides, part of his plan was to keep Cara busy, and that would not be so bad. Not so bad at all.
She was beautiful, tall, blonde, deviant. She fucked like the whore she was, using her sex like a drill to mine for gold. Her name was…unimportant. She was as hot as Cara, only Cara was a brunette. They were all the same really, he felt no connection with any of them. This one was not the first, last, or only girl to sleep under his gaze. He had the best one there was, Cara was certainly what any sane man would kill for, and having her made Joey happy, even if she herself did not.
Joey wondered if he was capable of feeling an emotion as complex as love. Certainly it was a feeling that begged for inspiration, but he found human relations to be too sinister to allow any sort of trust.
Joey reached over and shook the blond girl awake. He eyes opened groggily and she smiled.
“I don’t know if I can take it again,” she said, pulling back the covers with practiced purpose. Her naked body was half lit by the rising sun, and she knew it was a striking image. Her posture did not indicate that she was in any doubt of her ability to fuck again.
“Go home,” Joey said flatly and got out of bed.
He felt, rather than saw her smile fade, along with her alluring pose. She would fuck him all day if he said so, all night too. She would probably do anything he told her to if she thought he might buy her something.
“Is your girlfriend coming home?” she said, a slight scorn accented her tone.
“Yes, so get the fuck out of my house.”
She got up and dressed without another word. Joey went into the bathroom and got in the shower before she was even out of his bed.
The hot water did nothing to cool his mood. There was something deeply wrong. He no longer found pleasure in any thing he did. There was no reason to complain, he had everything any person had the right to ask for. But just like everyone else on the planet he wanted something more. It was an awful feeling when he realized that he already had everything.
Joey was stuck in a rut he needed a break in the routine. He needed to get out of his skin, do something crazy. He needed to feel alive.
The bathroom was hot with steam from the shower. Joey stepped in front of the mirror and wiped the condensation away with his towel. He looked fine. He might need a shave, but otherwise there were no problems. He would have given all the money in the world to have a mirror that would reflect what was wrong with him.
The phone rang.
It was Travis.
It had been Joey’s idea to kidnap the girl.
The girl was dead, there was no reason to let it be a senseless event, with no good to come out of it. What would be the harm in making a few dollars?
“What the fuck does that mean?” Travis had asked.
“It means shut up, take my truck and tow that wrecked piece of shit into the fucking lake,” he had answered.
Travis had done as he was told, knowing that something was amiss. He had chalked it up to nerves, but…
Travis had returned to Joey’s house to find that he had just been fucked, his nerves had been right. Helping out a friend was one thing. Given the circumstances and possible misinterpretation of the situation, helping Ryan was the right thing to do for a friend. Then Joey took it too far. He always took things too far. Maybe just a tiny step at first, but by the time he was done, you had taken an Olympic long jump into trouble. That was the problem with rich kids. They had no parents, no morals, and a lot of time to think up ways to get their friends in shit. Idle hands where the devils playground.
Joey seemed to like to watch people suffer. It was strange because Joey and Travis had been friends for as long as either could remember, and Joey would die for Travis, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to help him. He had demonstrated his loyalty more than a hundred times. Travis trusted him with his life. There was a powerful bond between the two, but Travis had yet to see even an ounce of compassion in Joey for anyone else. Joey could be very charismatic when he needed to be. He was very good at acting like a nice person, compassionate and gentle. That was not his true nature. That was the lie everyone believed was him.
Half the reason they were such good friends was that Travis admired his misanthropy and bitterness, even shared it. But he did not revel in it. Not like Joey did. But part of being friends was taking the good with the bad.
Now the bad included seven tiny fingers and a wad of bloody blonde hair.
Joey knew who the girl was, and said her family was rich enough to afford a sizeable ransom. Ryan was all for the idea in a second. Lazy and greedy as fuck, Ryan would do anything easy for money. Travis wanted nothing to do with the plan, but they needed his help. Joey needed three people for his plan. He needed one person to make the demands, one person to collect the money, and one person, unaffiliated with the plan to launder the money while the heat was somewhere else.
There was no reason why Joey needed any of this money, Travis knew. He was doing it just to fuck with people. To squeeze every last drop of pain and heartbreak out of this tragedy. His eyes were venomous with hate, and Travis wasn’t sure what was going on here. Come to think of it, this was extreme even for Joey’s psychosis.
But Travis said ok. He said goodbye, the plan called for him to be unaffiliated with either of them for at least two weeks. Besides, part of his plan was to keep Cara busy, and that would not be so bad. Not so bad at all.
Off the Wagon, Part 2: Torpor
There were times in those days in Pinewood that Travis wondered what it all meant. He had thought he found the answer a couple of times, but each time it turned out to be a delusion. It came to a point when there was nothing he could believe for fear that it would be as it had always been in the past, a lie. It came down to the fact that there was no answer, no truth, no purpose.
Pinewood was a growing suburban shithole, full of middle class white trash families, heavily seasoned with a good number of corporate drones with six figure salaries trying to escape the filth and decay of their workplace. Hoping that by leaving the city they would somehow find something better away from the huddled masses of urban life. Unfortunately for them, the nature of progress is that when one person finds something good, others spread like a fungus to get their piece, eventually crushing it under the weight of their own greed. So Pinewood found its incapable fate, and became a thriving backwoods city.
With the increased population came higher crime rates, more murders, more drug use among the children, overcrowded schools. Beautiful scenery destroyed by the necessity of four lane highways. Travis had watched it happen around him, but was not concerned or even angered. He had never really liked living in a farce and was happy that humanity had finally destroyed Pinewood too. It was almost as if the city was reflecting the corruption and apathy that was growing in Travis, and that gave him comfort.
The phone rang, but Travis didn’t answer it. He didn’t really feel like talking. He was sick with hindsight at the moment and did not need any physical reinforcement to his psychic torment. His over critical nature certainly did nothing to help his problems, but there was nothing he could do about.
It was late in the afternoon on a perfect winter day. The clean mountain air was gently blowing through Pinewood carrying with it the smell of purity, slightly tainted by the ever encroaching smog. Travis’s mind was awash with imagined evils and subsequent fears, so he decided he needed to do something so he wouldn’t be forced to think so much.
He decided to go to Joey’s house. Joey was exactly what he needed when he got in these moods. Joey was, for lack of a better term, content. He was optimistic about the world, and why not, his father was a big deal in some advertising firm so he never wanted for anything. He didn’t have to work, he had a nice car, a beautiful girlfriend (who was also incidentally disgustingly rich) and a fucking law degree that he didn’t even use. Not to imply there was any love lost between them, Travis considered Joey as one of the greatest human beings on the planet, but their experiences and ideologies where so contradictory that they hardly agreed on anything. Travis was sure that’s why they had been friends for so long. The problem with having things in common with people is that you eventually see yourself in your friends and you are constantly reminded of the things you hate in yourself by seeing them in others.
Travis put on his black Doc Martins. The trendy kind that looked fashionable and had none of the rebellion of the laceable combat boots, but they were comfortable, and they were heavy. It hurt when you kicked someone with them, and that made them functional as well as stylish. It was time to get out of the house and do something. Travis double checked his idea to go to Joey’s. The simple fact was that he didn’t want to see Joey.
He wanted to see Cara. Joey’s girlfriend was just too perfect not to want. She was one of those people that only women can be. Everything to everyone. At least everything to every man. Travis was sure she had a lot of female enemies. Girl’s were like that. They hated with jealousy while men hated with ignorance. Every guy who ever met her fell in love with Cara. They also thought she loved them too, Joey got in a lot of fights over his woman, but that was the other reason men hated, pride.
She was beautiful. Physically perfect. Perfect smile, perfect eyes, perfect ass, perfect tits, perfect hair, perfect nose, and she was rich, disgustingly so. Her father was one of the richest men in town. She had a laugh that could make a man happy to die, she could drink like an old man, and she could fuck. Jesus she could do that. She made him feel invincible, she made him feel alive, happy, and miserable.
She had made it clear that that was a one time mistake. No, she had called it a lapse in judgment. She had not bolstered that perspective with her eyes. They looked more like a regret that she had not met Travis first. A regret that he was not rich. A regret that she was as fundamentally a superficial as anyone.
He hadn’t held it against her, not since that night. Joey would kill him if he ever found out, but Joey was an asshole. He treated her like the trophy they both knew she was, and it hurt Travis to see her unhappy, even if it was her own fault. Even if that was what she wanted. Joey was his best friend. Travis wondered at the morality of his lust. Once one discovers perfection, how can he ever settle for less?
The phone rang again. This time Travis answered it. It was the Devil calling to say he wanted to meet for breakfast.
Pinewood was a growing suburban shithole, full of middle class white trash families, heavily seasoned with a good number of corporate drones with six figure salaries trying to escape the filth and decay of their workplace. Hoping that by leaving the city they would somehow find something better away from the huddled masses of urban life. Unfortunately for them, the nature of progress is that when one person finds something good, others spread like a fungus to get their piece, eventually crushing it under the weight of their own greed. So Pinewood found its incapable fate, and became a thriving backwoods city.
With the increased population came higher crime rates, more murders, more drug use among the children, overcrowded schools. Beautiful scenery destroyed by the necessity of four lane highways. Travis had watched it happen around him, but was not concerned or even angered. He had never really liked living in a farce and was happy that humanity had finally destroyed Pinewood too. It was almost as if the city was reflecting the corruption and apathy that was growing in Travis, and that gave him comfort.
The phone rang, but Travis didn’t answer it. He didn’t really feel like talking. He was sick with hindsight at the moment and did not need any physical reinforcement to his psychic torment. His over critical nature certainly did nothing to help his problems, but there was nothing he could do about.
It was late in the afternoon on a perfect winter day. The clean mountain air was gently blowing through Pinewood carrying with it the smell of purity, slightly tainted by the ever encroaching smog. Travis’s mind was awash with imagined evils and subsequent fears, so he decided he needed to do something so he wouldn’t be forced to think so much.
He decided to go to Joey’s house. Joey was exactly what he needed when he got in these moods. Joey was, for lack of a better term, content. He was optimistic about the world, and why not, his father was a big deal in some advertising firm so he never wanted for anything. He didn’t have to work, he had a nice car, a beautiful girlfriend (who was also incidentally disgustingly rich) and a fucking law degree that he didn’t even use. Not to imply there was any love lost between them, Travis considered Joey as one of the greatest human beings on the planet, but their experiences and ideologies where so contradictory that they hardly agreed on anything. Travis was sure that’s why they had been friends for so long. The problem with having things in common with people is that you eventually see yourself in your friends and you are constantly reminded of the things you hate in yourself by seeing them in others.
Travis put on his black Doc Martins. The trendy kind that looked fashionable and had none of the rebellion of the laceable combat boots, but they were comfortable, and they were heavy. It hurt when you kicked someone with them, and that made them functional as well as stylish. It was time to get out of the house and do something. Travis double checked his idea to go to Joey’s. The simple fact was that he didn’t want to see Joey.
He wanted to see Cara. Joey’s girlfriend was just too perfect not to want. She was one of those people that only women can be. Everything to everyone. At least everything to every man. Travis was sure she had a lot of female enemies. Girl’s were like that. They hated with jealousy while men hated with ignorance. Every guy who ever met her fell in love with Cara. They also thought she loved them too, Joey got in a lot of fights over his woman, but that was the other reason men hated, pride.
She was beautiful. Physically perfect. Perfect smile, perfect eyes, perfect ass, perfect tits, perfect hair, perfect nose, and she was rich, disgustingly so. Her father was one of the richest men in town. She had a laugh that could make a man happy to die, she could drink like an old man, and she could fuck. Jesus she could do that. She made him feel invincible, she made him feel alive, happy, and miserable.
She had made it clear that that was a one time mistake. No, she had called it a lapse in judgment. She had not bolstered that perspective with her eyes. They looked more like a regret that she had not met Travis first. A regret that he was not rich. A regret that she was as fundamentally a superficial as anyone.
He hadn’t held it against her, not since that night. Joey would kill him if he ever found out, but Joey was an asshole. He treated her like the trophy they both knew she was, and it hurt Travis to see her unhappy, even if it was her own fault. Even if that was what she wanted. Joey was his best friend. Travis wondered at the morality of his lust. Once one discovers perfection, how can he ever settle for less?
The phone rang again. This time Travis answered it. It was the Devil calling to say he wanted to meet for breakfast.
Off the Wagon, Part 1: Lying is like Murder, It's Easier Each Time.
"All good people are weak, they are good because they are not strong
enough to be evil.” --Friedrich Niezche
Ryan never believed it could be this bad.
It had all begun where most of life’s bullshit seemed to concentrate, at work. Ryan was a groundskeeper for an upper class housing community. He mowed the lawns, trimmed hedges, collected trash, all the things that were necessary to keep the rich aesthetically content. He didn’t have to take care of the pool, someone else did that. The poolboy was a skinny Mexican guy who did not speak English, or at least pretended not to. Whatever the truth was, he tended to keep to himself so Ryan did not know too much about him.
The tenants politely ignored Ryan’s presence, and he did not really mind. He enjoyed the anonymity of his job. He was pretty much his own boss, doing whatever needed to be done, at his own pace. This particular Monday, however, Ryan had shown up to his toolshed to find a guy about his own age waiting for him.
“Ryan?” the man asked as Ryan walked up.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Ryan said.
“My name is James. I’m supposed to help you today. We’re supposed to put in a new fence, and they want it up quick, so they hired me to help you.”
Ryan noticed, with a tinge of disgust, that James could have almost been his twin. They were close to the same height, (James might have been one or two inches taller) they both had comparable builds, brown hair, and well tanned skin. There was nothing more annoying than being brought face to face with your own uniqueness, Ryan thought to himself.
“Well let’s get started,” Ryan managed a smile and walked to the shed and unlocked the door. He closed his eyes as he pulled the doors open, he loved the smell of tools. Wood, metal , and oil, all stagnant in the same place, warmed by the sun and mixed together. It reminded Ryan of his Grandfather.
“What lot are we building on?” Ryan asked as he strapped on his coveralls.
“Lot 26, the Robinson’s. They got a dog and they need to have their backyard fenced. It strange that there’s only you here. This is a pretty big place, you’d think they’d need more staff.”
“They do, but it is cheaper to just have me. I manage alright, sometimes I get a little overwhelmed, but in general I keep it all together.”
“They told me the wood would be waiting for us on the property,” Trevor said.
“Well then everything else we need is already in the truck. Let’s go.”
They left the shed, Ryan didn’t bother to lock it up. Once they were in the car, Ryan knew it would begin. They would start to “get to know one another.” Ryan hated small talk. He didn’t feel that there was a need to always be talking, why everyone else did aggravated him to no end. Lot 26 was a bout a five minute drive, and before he had even started the engine his nightmare was made flesh.
“So where are you from,” James asked.
“Lots of places, I’ve lived here for the past five years, so…” James answered.
“Yeah, I just moved here about three months ago. I went to college for two years, but I dropped out. School has never been my strong point. What about you?”
Ryan inwardly cringed. He had a college degree. They had told him that would set him apart, give him an advantage over the uneducated masses. They lied. Here he was sharing the same existence as someone who spent a lot less time and money to come to the same conclusions and life path as he had. The fact that he and James seemed more alike than different made his breakfast curdle in his stomach.
“I …dodged that bullet from the beginning. I never even bothered going to college,” Ryan fought with ever fiber of his being, but he had been sucked in, stopping now would just be awkward, “Where did you go to school?”
“Horton community College. It was all I could afford, for all the good it did me,” there was genuine regret in James’s voice.
Ryan had already lost interest. His mouth seemed to spew questions with no real attention for the responses. Where did you grow up? Are you an only child? Do you play any sports? What’s your favorite TV show? God Dammit! Couldn’t he be left to suffer, in solitary peace, where his torment had no real external representation. He could have built this fence himself. He didn’t need this muddied reflection of himself as a constant, pathetic reminder of his horrible, empty life.
A five minute car ride.
“So I dumped her and moved out here to see what would happen. I don’t know why I picked here of all places, but here I am. I think the coolest part of this job is the fact hat you can actually accomplish something, see the fruits of you labor.”
Ryan had only one incredulous second to contemplate the stupidity of such a claim before he saw the red ball. It was a kickball, a red rubber kickball, just like the ones Ryan had played with when he was a kid. The ball bounced out in front of the truck and Ryan slammed on the brakes. The child that was chasing the ball became a slick red splash across the windshield as Ryan lost control of the truck. The truck fish tailed once to the left, then to the right, and then it stopped.
In retrospect, it was almost impossible for Ryan to remember which he realized first: he was alive or that James was dead. A pickaxe from the bed of the pickup had come in through the back window of the cab, impaling James through the neck. His heart still pumped blood through the severed jugular in a vain attempt to get the blood to the brain, and Ryan found himself hypnotized by the rhythmic stream of life that splattered on the dashboard.
Disorientated and confused, Ryan took off his seat belt. The door would not open, but the window had been broken, so he crawled out of the truck rather easily. The scene was surreally quiet. No one else was around. Ryan could make out a pair of legs, bent grotesquely, sticking out of the drainage ditch on the other side of the road. They were the legs of a child. He could tell because the feet were so small.
The kickball sat in the middle of the road, deflated so it looked like a red pimple on the black top.
It wasn’t even nine o’clock.
This was not turning out to be a very good day for Ryan.
They would eventually track the accident to him. It was his truck, at the place he worked everyday, and it was not going to take a genius to suspect who killed the two violently dead corpses.
He could have explained away the accident, tell the cops that it had been just one of those random system of events that leads to tragedy. He was very sorry that it had happened and all, but the kid had come from nowhere and…
That might have worked had the bottle of vodka in his lunch had not shattered all over the inside of the cab. It smelled like a Russian sailor and his drunk dog. He hadn’t started drinking it yet, but he wished he still had it now. Fuck, he was screwed. This was just what he fucking needed. Right now was the perfect time to go to jail.
Ryan blamed it on that ass fuck asshole who had brought bad luck stuck to his ass like a chili dingleberry. He couldn’t even remember the shithead’s god damn name, but it was all his Christ fucking fault. The sonavabitch. Fuck! Fuck! Godammit Fuck! If he hadn’t shown up at that shed, Ryan would not have started feeling like such a loser, and he would have been paying more attention.
Ryan surveyed the scene. No one had heard it or seen it. They were all probably at work, selling their lives in the pursuit of a new car and a bigger TV. In fact, it looked like the stupid little bitch in the irrigation ditch was the only human alive in the entire neighborhood. Well, at least that seemed to be the case earlier—maybe… Ryan jumped up as fast as he could and half scrambled, half ran to the girls twisted legs.
Hope died in his stomach when he got to her mangled remains. There was no fucking fuck of a way that she had survived. Her body looked like a bloody bird’s nest. She was a clustered assortment of seemingly random items, bones, cloth, and hair, stuck together with some foul red secretion that only some exotic rainforest bird would ejaculate that had congealed in the morning cold.
Ryan lost control of himself then. He vomited, but not physically, he felt more like there was an open bile duct pumping yellow fear into his heart.
Fuck.
That was awful. He had done a horrible thing. A horrible thing to an innocent little girl. He would fry for this.
Certainly he would.
If. If he got caught. Terror entered his body in the form of a bullet made of hope. The desperation of the guilty icily clutched his mind. He could not get away with this. Not without help.
Ryan ran back to the truck. Assfuck had bled out and now looked mildly calm. His blood had redecorated the interior of the truck. Blood had spattered in places, pooled in others, it gave the illusion of serenity. Ryan’s twin’s eyes were closed and his body slumped. Ryan dove at the corpse’s coat searching desperately. Dammit, why hadn’t he caved under the juggernaut of human development and bought a fucking piece of shit cell phone, dammit is that wasn’t the first thing he was going to buy if he got out of this, every jerkass mother fucker had one why didn’t this fuck—
Ryan’s cold hands grabbed a piece of hard plastic from the nice dead guy’s inside breast pocket. There was somebody watching him, Ryan thought. He had obviously stopped laughing long enough to cut him a break.
Ryan pressed a button and the phone lit up. The text said, “You have two unheard messages.” Ryan hoped the messages weren’t important. Ryan could not stifle his laughter. The tension of the situation broke with the maniacal laughter of one damned by a fate outside of his control.
Ryan called Travis.
enough to be evil.” --Friedrich Niezche
Ryan never believed it could be this bad.
It had all begun where most of life’s bullshit seemed to concentrate, at work. Ryan was a groundskeeper for an upper class housing community. He mowed the lawns, trimmed hedges, collected trash, all the things that were necessary to keep the rich aesthetically content. He didn’t have to take care of the pool, someone else did that. The poolboy was a skinny Mexican guy who did not speak English, or at least pretended not to. Whatever the truth was, he tended to keep to himself so Ryan did not know too much about him.
The tenants politely ignored Ryan’s presence, and he did not really mind. He enjoyed the anonymity of his job. He was pretty much his own boss, doing whatever needed to be done, at his own pace. This particular Monday, however, Ryan had shown up to his toolshed to find a guy about his own age waiting for him.
“Ryan?” the man asked as Ryan walked up.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Ryan said.
“My name is James. I’m supposed to help you today. We’re supposed to put in a new fence, and they want it up quick, so they hired me to help you.”
Ryan noticed, with a tinge of disgust, that James could have almost been his twin. They were close to the same height, (James might have been one or two inches taller) they both had comparable builds, brown hair, and well tanned skin. There was nothing more annoying than being brought face to face with your own uniqueness, Ryan thought to himself.
“Well let’s get started,” Ryan managed a smile and walked to the shed and unlocked the door. He closed his eyes as he pulled the doors open, he loved the smell of tools. Wood, metal , and oil, all stagnant in the same place, warmed by the sun and mixed together. It reminded Ryan of his Grandfather.
“What lot are we building on?” Ryan asked as he strapped on his coveralls.
“Lot 26, the Robinson’s. They got a dog and they need to have their backyard fenced. It strange that there’s only you here. This is a pretty big place, you’d think they’d need more staff.”
“They do, but it is cheaper to just have me. I manage alright, sometimes I get a little overwhelmed, but in general I keep it all together.”
“They told me the wood would be waiting for us on the property,” Trevor said.
“Well then everything else we need is already in the truck. Let’s go.”
They left the shed, Ryan didn’t bother to lock it up. Once they were in the car, Ryan knew it would begin. They would start to “get to know one another.” Ryan hated small talk. He didn’t feel that there was a need to always be talking, why everyone else did aggravated him to no end. Lot 26 was a bout a five minute drive, and before he had even started the engine his nightmare was made flesh.
“So where are you from,” James asked.
“Lots of places, I’ve lived here for the past five years, so…” James answered.
“Yeah, I just moved here about three months ago. I went to college for two years, but I dropped out. School has never been my strong point. What about you?”
Ryan inwardly cringed. He had a college degree. They had told him that would set him apart, give him an advantage over the uneducated masses. They lied. Here he was sharing the same existence as someone who spent a lot less time and money to come to the same conclusions and life path as he had. The fact that he and James seemed more alike than different made his breakfast curdle in his stomach.
“I …dodged that bullet from the beginning. I never even bothered going to college,” Ryan fought with ever fiber of his being, but he had been sucked in, stopping now would just be awkward, “Where did you go to school?”
“Horton community College. It was all I could afford, for all the good it did me,” there was genuine regret in James’s voice.
Ryan had already lost interest. His mouth seemed to spew questions with no real attention for the responses. Where did you grow up? Are you an only child? Do you play any sports? What’s your favorite TV show? God Dammit! Couldn’t he be left to suffer, in solitary peace, where his torment had no real external representation. He could have built this fence himself. He didn’t need this muddied reflection of himself as a constant, pathetic reminder of his horrible, empty life.
A five minute car ride.
“So I dumped her and moved out here to see what would happen. I don’t know why I picked here of all places, but here I am. I think the coolest part of this job is the fact hat you can actually accomplish something, see the fruits of you labor.”
Ryan had only one incredulous second to contemplate the stupidity of such a claim before he saw the red ball. It was a kickball, a red rubber kickball, just like the ones Ryan had played with when he was a kid. The ball bounced out in front of the truck and Ryan slammed on the brakes. The child that was chasing the ball became a slick red splash across the windshield as Ryan lost control of the truck. The truck fish tailed once to the left, then to the right, and then it stopped.
In retrospect, it was almost impossible for Ryan to remember which he realized first: he was alive or that James was dead. A pickaxe from the bed of the pickup had come in through the back window of the cab, impaling James through the neck. His heart still pumped blood through the severed jugular in a vain attempt to get the blood to the brain, and Ryan found himself hypnotized by the rhythmic stream of life that splattered on the dashboard.
Disorientated and confused, Ryan took off his seat belt. The door would not open, but the window had been broken, so he crawled out of the truck rather easily. The scene was surreally quiet. No one else was around. Ryan could make out a pair of legs, bent grotesquely, sticking out of the drainage ditch on the other side of the road. They were the legs of a child. He could tell because the feet were so small.
The kickball sat in the middle of the road, deflated so it looked like a red pimple on the black top.
It wasn’t even nine o’clock.
This was not turning out to be a very good day for Ryan.
They would eventually track the accident to him. It was his truck, at the place he worked everyday, and it was not going to take a genius to suspect who killed the two violently dead corpses.
He could have explained away the accident, tell the cops that it had been just one of those random system of events that leads to tragedy. He was very sorry that it had happened and all, but the kid had come from nowhere and…
That might have worked had the bottle of vodka in his lunch had not shattered all over the inside of the cab. It smelled like a Russian sailor and his drunk dog. He hadn’t started drinking it yet, but he wished he still had it now. Fuck, he was screwed. This was just what he fucking needed. Right now was the perfect time to go to jail.
Ryan blamed it on that ass fuck asshole who had brought bad luck stuck to his ass like a chili dingleberry. He couldn’t even remember the shithead’s god damn name, but it was all his Christ fucking fault. The sonavabitch. Fuck! Fuck! Godammit Fuck! If he hadn’t shown up at that shed, Ryan would not have started feeling like such a loser, and he would have been paying more attention.
Ryan surveyed the scene. No one had heard it or seen it. They were all probably at work, selling their lives in the pursuit of a new car and a bigger TV. In fact, it looked like the stupid little bitch in the irrigation ditch was the only human alive in the entire neighborhood. Well, at least that seemed to be the case earlier—maybe… Ryan jumped up as fast as he could and half scrambled, half ran to the girls twisted legs.
Hope died in his stomach when he got to her mangled remains. There was no fucking fuck of a way that she had survived. Her body looked like a bloody bird’s nest. She was a clustered assortment of seemingly random items, bones, cloth, and hair, stuck together with some foul red secretion that only some exotic rainforest bird would ejaculate that had congealed in the morning cold.
Ryan lost control of himself then. He vomited, but not physically, he felt more like there was an open bile duct pumping yellow fear into his heart.
Fuck.
That was awful. He had done a horrible thing. A horrible thing to an innocent little girl. He would fry for this.
Certainly he would.
If. If he got caught. Terror entered his body in the form of a bullet made of hope. The desperation of the guilty icily clutched his mind. He could not get away with this. Not without help.
Ryan ran back to the truck. Assfuck had bled out and now looked mildly calm. His blood had redecorated the interior of the truck. Blood had spattered in places, pooled in others, it gave the illusion of serenity. Ryan’s twin’s eyes were closed and his body slumped. Ryan dove at the corpse’s coat searching desperately. Dammit, why hadn’t he caved under the juggernaut of human development and bought a fucking piece of shit cell phone, dammit is that wasn’t the first thing he was going to buy if he got out of this, every jerkass mother fucker had one why didn’t this fuck—
Ryan’s cold hands grabbed a piece of hard plastic from the nice dead guy’s inside breast pocket. There was somebody watching him, Ryan thought. He had obviously stopped laughing long enough to cut him a break.
Ryan pressed a button and the phone lit up. The text said, “You have two unheard messages.” Ryan hoped the messages weren’t important. Ryan could not stifle his laughter. The tension of the situation broke with the maniacal laughter of one damned by a fate outside of his control.
Ryan called Travis.
Chapter 4: Insular Captivity
Doctor's Notes: From the Journal of Lester Johnson, dated 4/18/98. IT is important to note that this entry is in the third person, while most of the other entries are in the first person. There are a few more like this and when asked about them, Lester does not recall writing them. Lester, however, has no problems recognizing the subject of the entry, Amanda Levingston, though she is never mentioned by name. She was apparantly a girlfriend of his, though no record of any woman by that name exists anywhere my staff can locate.
Love has a color.
It is brown, the color of her eyes.
He didn’t see as much of that color as he would have liked. Each time he did see it made him happy. Retardedly happy, for no reason at all other than the fact that she was there. She loved him in her own way, though certainly not with the magnitude he brought. Time would eventually allow the brown to fade to gray, like a flower that is not watered it would eventually wilt and die. There is no need to cry for this tragedy, or mourn the passing of such a plant for it is the nature of all things to be born and to someday die, but that is the objective reality of things. The personal reality is much harder to swallow. It was hard to fight a battle were the enemy was not a faceless barbarian, different from you and cold, but a person almost too much like you, someone you love. There is a sense in which he wanted to throw the match, allow her to win, to go on her way without knowing what she had done to him. But he didn’t love her that much. She needed to feel some of his hurt, a tiny revenge that would make her a companion one final time.
Or….
He could make her feel more than that, he knew her well enough to destroy her from her foundations, to bring her to the height of an ant, maybe even destroy her fragile psyche forever…she didn’t deserve that, but that didn’t matter, not really. In fact, this was a perfect opportunity to vindicate himself. A glaring jewel of a prospect. How many countless times had he fallen for the same sort of girl? Needy, insecure, weak, beautiful. And every time, what had been the result? Pain, anger, and frustration. He always felt used, and more than that he had allowed it to happen and that was what burned the most. This was his chance to make up for all these past injustices. By getting to this one he could spit in the face of all the other times he had been to weak to take revenge.
He was not a good person. He wanted to be callus and unrepentant, but he had no choice but to empathize, and he could not go through with it. The fact that he could was a responsibility that screamed that he should not do it.
Hate also has a color.
It is blue, the color of his eyes.
The color that greeted him every morning, that mocked and tormented his tired conscience. There was nothing he could not manipulate, nothing he could not twist and contort to his will. It was just a matter of how--- how much work he wanted to put into it, how much he wanted to change it. He was the only one who was immune to this power, and it was extremely frustrating. Not only because he was something that he could not mold, but also because he was in a shape that he desperately wanted to re-cast. Too many things about himself were beyond his comprehension, but their presence was heralded by his behavior. His fears and doubts, his loves and hates, they all seemed so devious, insidious, and mean. They tortured him at night, evil demons that whispered their deeds with forked tongues and languid slurs. Some of the demons had been born by his mistakes, his own personal evil. Many of them, the majority by far, were bestowed on him, secretly planted in his very soul, so that their seed was invisible, but their sprout was undoubtedly existent. He could not lie to himself, he knew too much about himself, and he fixated on it.
The most horrible of the demons, the tyrant that ruled with an iron fist over the kingdom of his heart, was one of the first, though he wasn’t the first. He came into power when the defenses were not yet completed, before such things were needed. The need to hide the truth, to keep the true personality a secret, fed the demon until he grew too large and influential to deny. “Who will like this boy? He is different somehow and they can see it. If you want companions you will have to put your real self into the darkness.” The demon had done so and now that part of him was drifting around inside the darkest parts of himself, unable to be retrieved. Half forgotten it nags quietly from the abyss, its tiny words just loud enough to remind him what the demon had done to him, just loud enough to pronounce the hate of what had been done to him, what he had done to himself, of what he had become.
If he could not kill the demon, could not bend the reality of himself back to its rightful, healthy form; could someone else? Maybe it was not impossible to change, it was just impossible for him. That was a very good possibility, but there were more demons that tickled his ear, and they made this option almost as difficult. It was as if he was hungry for a food that did not exist. Some foods had similar smells, but they were not the genuine morsel, and their taste became fallow in their trickery. Quieting the hunger for a time, but eventually it made him vomit.
If they only knew. If only he could tell them. He was the only one who could know, at least that’s what the demon said. The vicious circle was hard to analyze. When it had mattered most, he began to live a lie just to fit in. When he realized how weak he had been it made him angry and he fought against it, yet this bravado was so much a part of who he had become, who he was now, that it would be dishonest inside the framework of his personality and so if he stopped lying he would be denying the very thing he wanted to be.
Himself.
The lie was who he was now.
He was what he was not.
Letting someone inside, and then watching as they opened a door that belied an interior that was elegant and good, only to discover a hovel of weakness and bitter hatred. The outside was popular, it was the part of him people were drawn to, a lesson he had learned hard and fast. If anyone else discovered this truth it would lend reality to his hate, it would take it outside of himself and birth it into the world. The nature of a lie is such that it is the truth as long as only the liar knows that it is false. The lie had become so immense, so saturated into every facet of his life, that he could not allow the façade to crumble and expect there to be any sort of positive result. Many people would be hurt, not the least of which would be him. Why had he chosen honesty as his lie? That was a stupid move that had been overwhelmingly effective. Who would look for falsehood when they were assured that the truth was staring them in the face?
Love has a color.
It is brown, the color of her eyes.
He didn’t see as much of that color as he would have liked. Each time he did see it made him happy. Retardedly happy, for no reason at all other than the fact that she was there. She loved him in her own way, though certainly not with the magnitude he brought. Time would eventually allow the brown to fade to gray, like a flower that is not watered it would eventually wilt and die. There is no need to cry for this tragedy, or mourn the passing of such a plant for it is the nature of all things to be born and to someday die, but that is the objective reality of things. The personal reality is much harder to swallow. It was hard to fight a battle were the enemy was not a faceless barbarian, different from you and cold, but a person almost too much like you, someone you love. There is a sense in which he wanted to throw the match, allow her to win, to go on her way without knowing what she had done to him. But he didn’t love her that much. She needed to feel some of his hurt, a tiny revenge that would make her a companion one final time.
Or….
He could make her feel more than that, he knew her well enough to destroy her from her foundations, to bring her to the height of an ant, maybe even destroy her fragile psyche forever…she didn’t deserve that, but that didn’t matter, not really. In fact, this was a perfect opportunity to vindicate himself. A glaring jewel of a prospect. How many countless times had he fallen for the same sort of girl? Needy, insecure, weak, beautiful. And every time, what had been the result? Pain, anger, and frustration. He always felt used, and more than that he had allowed it to happen and that was what burned the most. This was his chance to make up for all these past injustices. By getting to this one he could spit in the face of all the other times he had been to weak to take revenge.
He was not a good person. He wanted to be callus and unrepentant, but he had no choice but to empathize, and he could not go through with it. The fact that he could was a responsibility that screamed that he should not do it.
Hate also has a color.
It is blue, the color of his eyes.
The color that greeted him every morning, that mocked and tormented his tired conscience. There was nothing he could not manipulate, nothing he could not twist and contort to his will. It was just a matter of how--- how much work he wanted to put into it, how much he wanted to change it. He was the only one who was immune to this power, and it was extremely frustrating. Not only because he was something that he could not mold, but also because he was in a shape that he desperately wanted to re-cast. Too many things about himself were beyond his comprehension, but their presence was heralded by his behavior. His fears and doubts, his loves and hates, they all seemed so devious, insidious, and mean. They tortured him at night, evil demons that whispered their deeds with forked tongues and languid slurs. Some of the demons had been born by his mistakes, his own personal evil. Many of them, the majority by far, were bestowed on him, secretly planted in his very soul, so that their seed was invisible, but their sprout was undoubtedly existent. He could not lie to himself, he knew too much about himself, and he fixated on it.
The most horrible of the demons, the tyrant that ruled with an iron fist over the kingdom of his heart, was one of the first, though he wasn’t the first. He came into power when the defenses were not yet completed, before such things were needed. The need to hide the truth, to keep the true personality a secret, fed the demon until he grew too large and influential to deny. “Who will like this boy? He is different somehow and they can see it. If you want companions you will have to put your real self into the darkness.” The demon had done so and now that part of him was drifting around inside the darkest parts of himself, unable to be retrieved. Half forgotten it nags quietly from the abyss, its tiny words just loud enough to remind him what the demon had done to him, just loud enough to pronounce the hate of what had been done to him, what he had done to himself, of what he had become.
If he could not kill the demon, could not bend the reality of himself back to its rightful, healthy form; could someone else? Maybe it was not impossible to change, it was just impossible for him. That was a very good possibility, but there were more demons that tickled his ear, and they made this option almost as difficult. It was as if he was hungry for a food that did not exist. Some foods had similar smells, but they were not the genuine morsel, and their taste became fallow in their trickery. Quieting the hunger for a time, but eventually it made him vomit.
If they only knew. If only he could tell them. He was the only one who could know, at least that’s what the demon said. The vicious circle was hard to analyze. When it had mattered most, he began to live a lie just to fit in. When he realized how weak he had been it made him angry and he fought against it, yet this bravado was so much a part of who he had become, who he was now, that it would be dishonest inside the framework of his personality and so if he stopped lying he would be denying the very thing he wanted to be.
Himself.
The lie was who he was now.
He was what he was not.
Letting someone inside, and then watching as they opened a door that belied an interior that was elegant and good, only to discover a hovel of weakness and bitter hatred. The outside was popular, it was the part of him people were drawn to, a lesson he had learned hard and fast. If anyone else discovered this truth it would lend reality to his hate, it would take it outside of himself and birth it into the world. The nature of a lie is such that it is the truth as long as only the liar knows that it is false. The lie had become so immense, so saturated into every facet of his life, that he could not allow the façade to crumble and expect there to be any sort of positive result. Many people would be hurt, not the least of which would be him. Why had he chosen honesty as his lie? That was a stupid move that had been overwhelmingly effective. Who would look for falsehood when they were assured that the truth was staring them in the face?
Unforgetable.
Close to twenty people saw Claudia die.
That was odd because, with the exception of her immediate family, probably less than four people knew her name and face as a pair. Claudia was a plain looking girl, nothing anyone would bother to even mention. She was slightly overweight, but not fat enough to incite mockery. She was good in school, a B student her whole life, never very exemplary in that venue either. There was really nothing about her that was in any way interesting.
That was the surface analysis, and since no one had ever bothered to look any further, she lived undistinguished.
No one knew the things that made Claudia different from the rest of the planet, only that she was not worth looking into to.
Claudia’s mother was a drunk. She was usually passed out by the time Claudia came home from school. Her father had been dead since before she could remember. No brothers or sisters, only a free loading aunt who was amused at Claudia’s pain, teasing her relentlessly about the rumors her father had abandoned her, and was still alive somewhere in Europe.
Despite all of this, Claudia never once thought of dying. No depression, no suicide attempts, no drug use, or anything like that. She just accepted her fate and lived her life alone, not really an outcast, since she had never really been inside.
The bus driver said she just came out of nowhere, stepped into the intersection at a green light. Whatever the reason she stepped out in front of that bus, her disintegration managed to accomplish something she had never been able to do in real life, it affected someone.
Greg did not know her name, he didn’t even if she was a girl or guy, but when he saw the body turn to red foam on the windshield of that greyhound, he was impacted. It changed him, broke something in his mind forever, something deep inside him. It haunted his dreams and intruded on his nightmares, pervaded his thoughts, and put a tint on the world that could never be removed.
Everything changed. Food tasted different, sounds seemed to be muted. The world was a horrible place where terrible things happened. Would these things happen to him too?
Then as the weeks turned into months, Greg forgot about it, it’s influence on his psyche so ingrained that the details were no longer important. It was as if Claudia never existed. A plain, nondescript girl, who might as well never have existed was dead.
That was odd because, with the exception of her immediate family, probably less than four people knew her name and face as a pair. Claudia was a plain looking girl, nothing anyone would bother to even mention. She was slightly overweight, but not fat enough to incite mockery. She was good in school, a B student her whole life, never very exemplary in that venue either. There was really nothing about her that was in any way interesting.
That was the surface analysis, and since no one had ever bothered to look any further, she lived undistinguished.
No one knew the things that made Claudia different from the rest of the planet, only that she was not worth looking into to.
Claudia’s mother was a drunk. She was usually passed out by the time Claudia came home from school. Her father had been dead since before she could remember. No brothers or sisters, only a free loading aunt who was amused at Claudia’s pain, teasing her relentlessly about the rumors her father had abandoned her, and was still alive somewhere in Europe.
Despite all of this, Claudia never once thought of dying. No depression, no suicide attempts, no drug use, or anything like that. She just accepted her fate and lived her life alone, not really an outcast, since she had never really been inside.
The bus driver said she just came out of nowhere, stepped into the intersection at a green light. Whatever the reason she stepped out in front of that bus, her disintegration managed to accomplish something she had never been able to do in real life, it affected someone.
Greg did not know her name, he didn’t even if she was a girl or guy, but when he saw the body turn to red foam on the windshield of that greyhound, he was impacted. It changed him, broke something in his mind forever, something deep inside him. It haunted his dreams and intruded on his nightmares, pervaded his thoughts, and put a tint on the world that could never be removed.
Everything changed. Food tasted different, sounds seemed to be muted. The world was a horrible place where terrible things happened. Would these things happen to him too?
Then as the weeks turned into months, Greg forgot about it, it’s influence on his psyche so ingrained that the details were no longer important. It was as if Claudia never existed. A plain, nondescript girl, who might as well never have existed was dead.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Love in an Elevator, Part 1; "Hello, I think I love you."
Travis walked out of the sun and into the apartment building lobby.
He pulled his sunglasses off his eyes and situated them on the top of his head. It wasn’t a big lobby, a front desk for a security guard, maybe, but it sat empty. The stair well, the elevators, and the mail boxes, that was about it.
The front doors were glass, but somehow the only light in the dismal entryway was the fluorescent bulbs humming above him. Travis went to his mail box, unlocked it and was not surprised to find nothing inside.
He shut the tiny metal door and put his keys in his pocket. This was the same thing he did every day after work. He could very easily predict how the rest of this evening would go, namely a solitary meal in front of his TV or computer, most likely a microwave burrito or a sandwich. A few hours of fucking around with emails and whatnot, with a liberal amount of whiskey and/or Vodka, and then it was off to bed to listen to his neighbors fuck and then a few hours of troubled sleep, all before he got up and dragged his parent’s disappointment to his shit job.
Maybe he should just quit. This idea occurred to him frequently, but it never really amounted to much. As pathetic as it was that ass smear of a vocation was all he had. If he had to live every day like it was a Saturday, he wouldn’t live to see the new year.
The elevator was all the way up an the 10th floor, typical. Travis pressed the “up” button and waited, he shifted in his shoes, tried to nonchalantly look around, but there was nothing going on. Fuck he hated waiting! Waiting for anything, waiting in line, why the fuck was he always as far away from everything as possible?
The numbers began their descent, 10, 9, 8, 7. Stop. Wait. 6, 5, 4…Travis was sure it would stop on the 2nd floor, lazy motherfuckers couldn’t walk down one flight of fucking stairs. 3, 2….Ire like white hot tar began to bubble in Travis veins.
The lobby doors opened and in walked the fat girl that lived on his floor. Fucking great. Now on top of waiting for the elevator, he had to stand in awkward silence all the way to the 9th floor with someone he’d rather roast on a spit than talk to.
“Hi Travis, how are you?” she said as she planted her hocks in front of the elevator.
“Pretty shitty, I think you got to the supermarket before me ‘cause there was no ice cream left.”
She turned her already pig nose up a little higher and Travis assumed her jaw clenched, but her face was too fat to show any muscular strain.
At least she wouldn’t talk to him anymore.
“Did you see that they changed the pet policy,” she said, “You can now have a dog up to 25 lbs.”
Travis looked at the girl, his eyebrows knitted.
“That’s fucking awesome!” he said and returned his gaze to the now opening elevator doors.
An old lady with a walker and an old man stooped in the elevator, flanked by the Chinese DJ and his black girlfriend. Travis smiled at the black girl, she smiled back. Chinese DJ gave an obligatory “what’s up?” as he passed by.
“Mrs. Robertson,” the fat girl squeeled, “how is your hip doing, you look great!”
“Oh..I’m doing much better, aren’t I Harold?” the old lady said.
The old man gave a non committal grunt and looked at Travis. His eyes held simultaneous anger and defeat. Travis smiled a little.
“My grandson is coming to visit next weekend,” the old lady said, her voice paper thin.
“Really that’s wonderful,” Fatso said.
“Damnit Martha, no one’s coming to visit us next weekend or any other weekend,” the old man said with resigned weakness.
“No he tol—“ the old lady was interrupted by the doors trying to close. The crunched her walker and opened again, “…oh dear.”
“Maybe you should get the fuck out of the elevator, before you get hurt,” Travis suggested.
“What was that, son?” the old lady asked, “my hearing is not what it once was, I remember when we were at Applebee’s last week and the waitress asked if I wanted the dressing on the side, and I thought she said “pressing the tide,” so I said ‘no,’ but I really didn—“ CRUNCH the doors tried to close again and were thwarted by the aluminum walker.
The fat girl gave Travis a withering look and took MRs. Robertson by the arm and helped her out of the elevator. The old man followed suite, barely looking at anything but the ground, but before Travis could get around the aged roadblock, the old lady had a revelation.
“Ohh, I forgot to get the coupon for the dinner, I left it on the nightstand.”
“Well, I’m not paying $6.99 for both our dinners,” the old man stoutly declared.
“We can just go back up and get it,” the old lady agreed.
Fuck! Travis was running in tiny circles inside his head. The fat girl helped the old lady back into the elevator, with only one more door crunching. Travis found himself wishing the door had a little more power. He would have enjoyed watching the old bag crumble like a beer can.
The fat girl was holding the door, “There’s room for one more,” she said, smiling.
“No, I think I‘ll take the fucking stairs, thanks,” Travis said.
“Suit yourself,” the fat girl shrugged.
The door slid shut with a DING! And Travis was alone in the lobby again. The stairs would have to do, it was only nine floors, and that was a paradise compared to the idle blatherings of those idiots he just watched depart his company. Travis turned toward the stairwell, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Someone was trying to open the lobby doors, but their hands were full of plastic bags. Holy Shit! It was the hot sorta Mexican (she had very dark hair and tan skin, maybe she was Puetro Rican…who knew, he never heard her speak Spanish, though) girl that lived next door to him.
Travis walked over to the door and pushed it open. She smiled at him, her teeth straight and white. God she was fucking beautiful. Her eyes were so brown they were almost black, and they sparkled in the sun light. Her black hair hung to just above her tits, and it stuck to her exposed cleavage with her sweat.
“Oh fuck. Thank you,” she said.
Goddmnit, now he remembered, she was also about as pregnant as was possible, still he had had a crush on her since he moved in over a year before. She was the hottest pregnant woman he had ever seen.
“It’s no problem. Jesus this is a lot of diapers,” Travis said.
“Yeah he’s due any day now.”
“Wow, I guess so. You’re huge.”
“Yeah, thanks, I know.”
“Sorry I just haven’t seen you in a while, I...uh,”
She laughed and it sounded like music.
“It’s ok, can you help—“
“Yeah, shit, I’m sorry give me that crap,” Travis took the bags out of her hands and managed to hold the door open for her too, “Why are you carrying all this shit, you shouldn’t be doing all this kinda shit in your condition.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t really have a choice.”
Travis suddenly felt bad for all the times he had masturbated listening to her scream during sex.
“Well, I’m right next door, if you need anything. Unless what you need involves these diapers. I don’t even like wiping my own ass.”
She laughed again, “Well thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”
They walked to the elevator. The door opened right away.
fucking typical, Travis thought.
They got on the elevator.
“So what have you been up to? I almost never see you any more,” Travis asked.
“I’ve been working graveyard hours, so I’m in and out at weird times.”
“I see. So..uh..you’re not seeing that guy anymore?”
“Who? Jonathan? No, he didn’t want me to have the kid., and I haven’t seen him since.”
“That’s a bummer.”
“Yeah, well, that kinda shit always seems to happen to me,” her eyes softened, “What about you, what’s been up with you?”
“I work in a clinic that specializes in 3rd trimester abortions.”
“Really, how’s business?”
Travis’s eyebrow lifted.
“Uh..pretty good, I only get paid on commission, so if you know anyone…”
“With the way my back feels I might just take your card.”
“No, actually I—“
There was a very low rumble that grew to a terrible thrumming, followed by a shearing metal sound, and then the world went black.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Intermission
When you were born, a shackle was attached to your left foot.
Not everyone has the shackle on the left foot, some have it on their right, but that is very rare. You’re shackle is on the left foot, I am certain of it. This shackle is connected to a chain. The chain is fine, weightless, practically invisible, you can see it, if you look hard enough, but mostly it exists independent of notice.
The anchor point for the chain is far out of your sight. By the time you realize the chain is there at all, you have traveled too far to see where the other end is fastened. The shackle is feather light, it does not chafe, but it grips unwaveringly. Its caress is soft, unobtrusive, and its chain is slack.
It has always been there, and you just assume it is supposed to be there, like your hands, or your lungs, or your heart. Maybe you need it to live, maybe it is essential to your life. Regardless it is there, it cannot be removed and it is not bothersome in the least. It does not restrict your movement, forward backward, left, right, you can move with adroitness, smoothly and quickly.
The latitude you are awarded seems an overkill. In general you’re only compulsion is to walk ahead, by the time you want to know where it is anchored, it will be too late, but for now you don’t give it a second thought. In fact, you feel as if there is a power herding you forward, silently nudging, gently prodding.
Then one day, the chain becomes taut, unyielding. You can no longer walk forward. You tug tentatively at your restraint, but you are bound. Odd, you think to yourself, but you can still go left or right, and you can see verdant pastures in both directions. You could go back, but there are atramentous clouds on that skyline and besides, you have already been that way, there is no reason to explore a path you just traversed.
So you turn left. Right would make the walking awkward, what with the shackle on the out side, and it seems like both paths are equivalent, so why not take the one that offers the least hassle.
You walk in this direction, in a straight line, the chain forgotten again in the midst of the wonders along your path. A myriad forms assault you, fascinating you at every turn, hurting you, making you laugh, breaking your heart.
Still you walk, anticipation of the next experience like a poison and its antidote in the same pill.
Your journey is arduous and exhilarating, sometimes your pace slows, sometimes it quickens, often you look over your shoulder and visit things behind you, but eventually you continue your trek forward, always to the left.
You are aware that the shackle is slowly making you veer in a circular path, but its radius is so beyond your scope that you do not see the circle, only the line. It is not until then that you notice, for the first time, that you have been here before. It is not until then that you get a sense as to the vector of your peregrination. But it has been a while since you saw this landscape, perhaps it is just similar, certainly it is only a dull resemblance, maybe a forgotten dream?
This is, of course, wishful thinking. It takes some thousands of circumnavigations to see it, but you are in the mean, you take the average amount of time to notice that you are walking in a circle, and the circle is shrinking. This is when you notice the storm that was once so far away, is a little larger, looming a tad bit closer, noticeably so, but only because you haven’t looked toward it in so long, you tell yourself. It is still so far off, you need not fear it.
But you have noticed the chain shrinking, closing the distance ever so slightly, and you slow your pace. Partly because you think it may slow your decaying orbit, partly because you have become weary. More and more often you see landmarks you recognize. More and more you notice that the peaks are not novel, the valleys all too familiar.
Panic is a tiny bubble of discontent in the bottom of your stomach, it’s enough to notice, but it is not powerful enough to alter your journey, but like the clouds, once you notice it’s progression, it is impossible to ignore. Denial is your weapon, your aegis that protects you from the truth of this walk.
Why is this shackle on your ankle? Who put it there, what is it attached to? Why have you never wondered at it before now? You have come across many skeletons in your travels, and they had no shackles attached to there bleached ankles…why was that? Why had it not been an important detail until now?
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