Here Be Monsters

2005-04-10T15:41:00.000-04:00

Spanky

A Sweet Little Bullet From a Pretty Blue Gun

2005-04-10T15:10:00.000-04:00

A Sweet Little Bullet
From a Pretty Blue Gun

by Genevieve Packer

“It’s raining, it’s pouring, and you didn’t bring a sweater.
Nebraska’ll never let you come back home.”
- Tom Waits, “A Sweet Little Bullet From a Pretty Blue Gun”

It’s raining. Again. Why does it always seem to rain when I’m on stakeout? The melodrama is dripping down my collar.

My finger twitches on my custom-made 22-45 Ruger pistol. The silencer is on, laser scope off, for now. Soon, I’ll turn it on to get a bead on Mr. Harrington’s right temple. One sweet little bullet from my pretty blue-steeled gun, and this job will be finished. But for now, I must wait. I am forever waiting.

People think my job is glamorous; yes, I make amazing money. Fabulous money. Gobs and gobs of money. And men love a woman in black. But no one sees me following the subject for five weeks to learn their schedule, habits, and personality. I watch that person, day and night, for 35 days. By the end, I know what kind of cereal they eat, what their favorite television program is, how many pairs of socks they own, how regular they are, and what their favorite drug is. And then, on the final day, I wait, sometimes for hours on end, for them to go to sleep.

By researching and studying the subject, by taking every precaution and being prepared, I can enjoy the wealth my profession earns me.

I am currently on hour four with Mr. Harrington.

I suppose I could be a little more lax and cruel about it: burst into their home, guns blazing, and blow them away in typical movie fashion—glass shattering, feathers flying through the air, wood splintering, and one lone barking dog. I could riddle the subject’s body with twenty bullets, each one sending an electric shock that worms a painful path from the wound to the brain. I could, I suppose. But I like my way. Not doing it my way would mean getting caught within the week. And I look terrible in orange.

Besides, going in Rambo-style is what I’d call excessive.

…

Checking my watch, I can see that it’s 1:37 AM. Mr. Harrington is still up; he is currently raiding the fridge for a slice of buttercream and raspberry cake. Wait, buttercream and raspberry cake? Oh God. That…is my absolute favorite. I wonder if I could…?

…

Mr. Harrington finally went to sleep. I crept in through the window to the fire escape that he left unlocked. He probably figured that since the ladders to the street were broken and pulled up, no one would be able to climb up to his window. He didn’t count on someone climbing down.

I made my way to his bedroom after cleaning off the bottoms of my shoes (to make sure I don’t track evidence into the apartment), the thick burgundy carpeting muffling my footsteps. The spacious apartment was well-furnished. Mrs. Harrington has very good taste and the money to show it off to company. His bedroom door was open and he was alone; Mrs. Harrington was out for a three-day-long spa treatment. Her husband, a federal judge, was in the habit of accepting both monetary and sexual bribes. You can imagine his wife’s objection to the first, but even more so to the second. The fourth time he gave her the clap she gave me a call. I told her that she had better be a good actress when the cops came around, because even though Mr. Harrington was a judge and was sure to have many enemies, they are always suspicious of the spouses.

I walked up slowly to the sleeping form of Mr. Harrington. He was on his stomach, with the back of his head facing me. I was briefly grateful for that small favor. His breathing was slow and deep, his chest sending gentle waves through the sheets. I remember Mrs. Harrington’s tearful, angry face as she described her husband’s sins. She may have been born into a life of wealth and privilege, but she had genuinely loved her husband and had done everything she could to be a good wife to him. I could see the betrayal and the hurt ruining her mascara. If it had just been his infidelities, she explained, she could have dealt with it, divorced him, gone to counseling. But he, who had sworn an oath to uphold the law and protect the innocent, had violated those oaths to further his bank account and career. And he had enough connections that he would never pay for those violations in a court. I have to admire Mrs. Harrington; she’s a true patriot.

Knowing this, and seeing it for myself during my research, I didn’t find it difficult to raise my gun and aim at the back of his sleeping head. I only take on cases of this nature. Otherwise, I don’t think I could do what I’m paid to do.

The shot was silent. Bang.

I was careful not to track blood out of the room. When I get back to my house I’ll burn the clothes, shoes, and latex gloves I’m wearing, clean my gun and put it in its wooden box hidden in the wall behind my closet. Oh, damn, this cake is good.

…

It feels good having twenty thousand dollars wadded in an envelope in the top of my thigh-highs. The former Mrs. Harrington was a model client; she paid on time in and in cash. I made sure to have her withdraw the money in small increments over the period of time from when she first hired me to the present time, two months after the completion of the job. Some I’ll deposit in the bank to keep up the illusion of my occupation that doesn’t exist. The rest goes in a vault buried deep in the basement of my home. Ever since the government has started sticking their noses into everyone’s personal business, I’ve had to spend hours devising ways to keep my tax-free income out of their grubby little hands. My home out in the country helps me keep my profile low, below their radar.

I have a certain amount of satisfaction knowing that I have performed a personal and public service, relieving Mrs. Harrington of a bad marriage and the general public of corrupt official. Drug dealers, child molesters, rapists, husbands that beat their wives, they’ve all experienced my particular brand of justice.

The coffee, a hazelnut and vanilla blend, is delicious in this tiny, hole-in-the-wall bistro where I am currently enjoying a beautiful, sunny day off. The grilled chicken sandwich was positively divine, and the waiter…well, let’s just say that with the tips I leave, he and his family can afford to order that cheese from France that I love.

As I sip from the porcelain china, my waiter brings a letter.

Dear Jillian,
Kevin and Robbie fell into the thresher. Please come to the funerals.
Mom and Dad

My coffee tastes like dirt.

…

I rented a two-door evergreen coupe instead of taking my black kitten of a sports car for the drive up to Kearney, Nebraska. My parents did raise me to have a tiny bit of modesty. I only paid twenty thousand for the sports car, and I keep it in the garage.

Winding my way from St. Louis to Kearney, I can’t decide whether to be touched or insulted by my parents’ letter. The idea that my brothers, idiots though they may be, would fall in a thresher and then my parents would send a note like that is laughable. But my parents don’t really have a sense of humor, so it must be something else. I didn’t bother phoning them; this was something that needed to be talked about face to face. The only reason I got the letter was because the envelope was stamped URGENT, and my lawyer (who receives all my mail) forwarded it to the café he knew I’d be at after the latest job. Otherwise, it might have been another week before I dropped by to pick it up.

The green parks around the St. Louis Arch are left behind and with a sigh I begin to notice the subtle browning of the leaves and the grass becoming very scruffy around the edges. I can’t say that the lure of greener pastures, both physical and metaphorical, wasn’t a reason why I left.

I wonder what could have happened to prompt my parents to send such a bizarre letter. I haven’t seen them in several months, not since last Christmas; it’s hard going home, avoiding certain questions and making up lies for the others. I hate that I left the farm, but my life was cut out for something much bigger than milking cows. I suppose it’s my guilt that writes out the checks I send home at the end of the month.

Spanky is sitting very patiently in the backseat. Occasionally he watches the landscape roar by, but mostly he lays his head down and sleeps. That dog can sleep through a herd of cats rampaging through the living room and never twitch an eyebrow. He is the only man in my life, and at this point I truly don’t mind. I’m thirty years old and have smothered the screeching biological clock begging me to get married and have kids. With my lifestyle, it wouldn’t be feasible, and the money and freedom are too good to give up. Besides, Spanky is an excellent companion: comfort, security, and a wet nose in the face. Why do I need an opposite-sex counterpart? Spanky already knows how to do the dishes; I hand him a plate and he licks it clean. Rinse and repeat.

…

I pull into the long, dusty gravel trail that will lead me to my parents’ house. The land is looking good, maybe even better than when I left it. I can’t say that my parents’ and brothers’ hard work hasn’t paid off. Their cows are well-taken care of, fat and healthy, and sell well on the market, allowing them luxuries like satellite TV and massage recliners.

My mother keeps a clean house. She did the interior decoration herself and has an excellent eye for color and composition. The rooms are warm and inviting, with reds and creams, and lots of dark honey-colored wood, polished to a refined shine. She designed the breakfast nook with white and light olive for cool, quiet reflection. Smiling to myself, I would have to say that edging out the house for my mother’s affection was a bit of a challenge. The rooms were even featured in a home and style magazine some years ago. I have a disappointing feeling that Spanky will be sleeping outside.

Dad walks out the front door, his head almost brushing the top of the door frame. He doesn’t look excited to see me; I guess he’s more resigned to the fact that I showed up. He is healthy and robust at fifty eight; instead of wearing him down, farm work seems to have shined him up like a new penny. I’m sure his retirement will be a good one.

“Jillian,” my father says as he puts a large, tanned hand in the air.

“Hi, Dad.” I suddenly have no desire to have the conversation that brought me here. I shut my door and open Spanky’s. He starts running around the car in fast, elliptical streaks before he notices my father. At bullet speed, Spanky is sniffing and licking my father’s pants, hands, ankles, shoes, whatever is within reach. I notice a small smile crack through my father’s stony demeanor. Thank God for small favors.

Dad kneels down next to Spanky and gives him a belly rub, as per Spanky’s demands. I watch them for a minute; I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this scene before, when I was a kid and Dad would take the whole family to the annual cattle show. The place would be crawling with dogs: big dogs, bigger dogs, and dogs the size of a small horse. Every cattle rancher has a dog, even if the dog is completely inept at herding cattle or will wag it’s tail at any stranger with food. Dogs are as much of a staple of cattle ranchers as the cows. We always had two or three to help around the farm and eat our table scraps. Dad loved those dogs like they were his own offspring, so it was like having four or five siblings instead of just two. He certainly seems to have taken a liking to Spanky.

“How are you, Dad?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“A little tired, but good.”

Dad’s eyes never leave Spanky’s stomach during our exchange. “Are you hungry? Your mother has dinner cooking; it should be done soon.”

“I could eat.”

Dad gives Spanky one last pat and pushes himself up off his knees. “That’s a fine dog you have there.”

“Spanky’s a good guy. Not much of a guard dog, but he’s great company.” Dad almost grins at that, but his attention turns towards the house before it could be completed.

“I’ll get your bags and we’ll go inside.”

…

Dinner had become very tense in the first ten minutes of sitting down. Imagine my (mild) surprise when my dearly departed brothers sat down next to Dad for steak, green beans, mashed potatoes, and biscuits.

After a long silence and the clinking of glasses and silverware against plates, I asked, “Can anyone else see Robbie and Kevin or am I suddenly John Edwards?”

A puzzled look crossed Mom’s face. “Who is John Edwards, dear? You don’t mean that senator from North Carolina, do you?”

“No,” I said angrily, “the guy on TV that sees dead people. Now what’s going on?”

Dad wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a drink of his water. Mom passed the biscuits to Kevin.

“Jillian, your brothers aren’t dead,” Dad said, putting his water down. “We needed to get you home.”

Slightly stunned, I turned to my mother. “Mom, what is this?”

Mom’s eyes are apologetic. “Honey, I’m sorry, but we need your help. The family and the farm are in big trouble.”

Dad leaned towards me with a look in his eye that I’ve only seen once before. “There’s a city contractor strong-arming us off our land. He’s buying out the other families and bribing people to stop buying the cattle. If we don’t sell, we’ll go under.”

“Do you need money? I have some put away and you can have it; but why didn’t you just call and tell me? Why did you tell me Robbie and Kevin were dead?”

Mom and Dad looked at each other. “Well,” my mother began sheepishly, “I thought that if you believed that they were dead, you’d come home right away and not ask ques--”

“We don’t want your money, Jill,” Robbie interrupted. “We need your services.”

The steak in my stomach was weighing down my thumping heart. “What do you mean? I work in a book warehouse. How will that help you?”

“C’mon Jill,” Kevin sneered, “you don’t work in any warehouse. We know what your real job is.”

The look on my face prompted Mom to speak. “Jillian, we thought it was…unusual that a girl as smart as you would wind up in a book warehouse. It just didn’t seem like you, but you would get so touchy when we asked you about it, so we stopped bringing it up. About three years ago, we wanted to make sure you were doing all right. So we went to your lawyer…to check up on you.”

“You what?” My astonishment that my family would keep tabs on my movements like the FBI wished they could was only superseded by my surprise that they had been successful.

“You shouldn’t be mad at him, sweetheart,” Mom scrambled to explain, “he didn’t make it easy for us. Made us show our identification, did a quick background-check on us, the works, really. After all that he still wasn’t going to tell us, but I begged him. He’s a good man, Jillian, and it was something of a relief to know.”

Alfred, you idiot, I thought. Sweet, tottering old fool. I’ve known Alfred for a long time; many years ago, I performed a service for him. When he was a prosecutor for the state, he put away a man who had killed eight people and then dismembered them, scattering the parts along the coast. This man sent some low-class hoodlum to take Alfred out during the proceedings; Alfred was a friend of mine, so I took personal offense at this man’s audacity. I watched Alfred’s back and took out the hit-man before he took out Alfred; Alfred insisted, however, that the man he was prosecuting would stay alive so that he could enjoy his time in a maximum security prison for the rest of his life. I obliged him, and he’s taken care of me ever since. He must be getting soft in his old age.

“Look,” my father said as he waved away my indignation, “we don’t have time to discuss that right now. We need you. We need you to…dispose of Charlie Gasperson; that’s the contractor trying to take the farm, and we need it done soon. We’re scraping the bottom of our savings to keep the place going. Kevin and Robbie sold almost everything they own to help us out.” My brothers gave a little nod.

“We didn’t want to bother you because we didn’t think it was your problem, sweetheart.” Mom’s lower lip was pale and pinched. “But we really, really need you now, honey. We don’t know what else to do.”

“You-you want me to…kill this guy? Mom, Dad, this isn’t like you. How can you ask me this?”

“Get off it,” Kevin spat, “you do it every day. What, you’ve suddenly had a change of heart? Found religion?”

“Cut it out, Kevin,” my father said sternly. He looked back at me. “Jillian, we don’t like that you have such a dangerous job. Or that you’re a murderer for hire.”

“But we’ve come to terms with it, dear,” Mom said. “As we understand it, you don’t kill innocent people and you’re not greedy. We taught you that much at least. And we know you, we know you’re not a bad person--”

“But Charlie Gasperson is,” my father interrupted. “I went to him, personally, after I found out what he was doing. He had me waiting outside for three hours and then had the gall to tell me to come back the next day.” His eyes grew dark. “I told him what I had found out, that I was going to the police to report him, and he just laughed. He laughed right in my face. He said he didn’t care about some hick family and no one else would either if he had anything to do with it. That’s when he started paying people to not buy our cows.

“No one would listen,” he sighed, “I went to the sheriff, I went to the lawyer’s office--they can’t prove anything! He keeps his ass and his books cleaner than your mother’s china, and even though they know what’s happening, there’s not a goddanged thing they can do about it.” Dad slammed his fist on the table. “He’s trying to kill us, Jillian! We’ve got no choice!”

“Dad, I can’t! There’s got to be something else we can do, you can’t think that murder is answer.” I appealed to Mom. “Mom, you can’t seriously be thinking of doing this, can you?”

“I’m sorry that we have to ask you this, but…there really is nothing left for us to do. Your father won’t sell the farm…this was all we could think of.” My mother’s face was so sad.

I didn’t know what to do. All these years of a life with tons of excitement and money and very few responsibilities and now... The look in my father’s eyes was desperation.

…

It’s just like when we were kids: my brothers versus me. Even though I’m older than Kevin and only a year or two younger than Robbie, they would always band together against me. Now they are trying to stare me into submission. They used to do it physically, back when my gangly frame was no match for Robbie’s six feet of farm muscles and Kevin’s sneakiness. Kevin could be a real bastard sometimes in a fight; I think he has short man’s complex and figured that playing dirty made him and his opponent even. I have to smile, though, since they wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight against me today.

Sitting in the porch swing with Robbie and Kevin standing in front of me feels like the trial I never had to go to. “Jill, we need you to do this. We’ve done everything we could, absolutely everything.” Robbie’s soft doe eyes could work magic on most girls, but I had grown up with them. He kneels down to get at eye-level like one does when explaining something to a child. “We’ve got nothing left. If you don’t help, we’ll all be out on the streets and our home will be condos for yuppies who have never worked a day in their lives.” Spanky has trotted out from behind the house to see why all these people were not paying attention to him.

“Aw, fer Pete’s sake, Jill, you’ve never done anything for this place. You ran out of here so fast, the trees were bent over for a week from the back draft.” Kevin never did learn manners or tact. “And that was fine, it broke Mom’s heart, but we could get by fine without you. But now, joke of all jokes, we need you,” he huffs, poking a chubby finger in my face, “and you’re gonna just sit there and tell us you can’t. You’re ungrateful and self-important, too high-and-mighty to step down off that golden pedestal you put yourself on.” At this point, Kevin is directly in my face. If he doesn’t remove himself, I’ll do it for him. “Did you really think that check at the end of the month would really make up for you runnin’ out on us? God, you selfish bitch--”

Kevin doesn’t finish the sentence because my fist flies out and breaks his nose.

“Augh!” He staggers backwards and his hand goes to his face. When he pulls back to find blood on it, he steps forward and tries to grab me. Spanky is going berserk, telling Kevin very loudly that he should not act in such a manner towards Spanky’s Mommy. Despite the angry tears blurring my vision, I stand and step aside, throwing him into the porch swing. Kevin crashes through it and falls off the edge. Robbie has backed up a few steps and Kevin is climbing back up onto the porch, his shirt torn and dirty and pissed beyond all belief. Spanky continues to admonish Kevin very loudly. Kevin's chest is heaving and he advances on me.

“Kevin!”

Kevin starts and pulls back quickly at the voice of our mother and Robbie’s eyes shoot to the door .

“That’s enough, Kevin! I don’t know what she did, but I’m sure you deserved it. And you,” she says, turning to Robbie, “you just stand there, don’t you? Grown men acting like children; both of you, go inside.” They both leave like kicked puppies and Spanky gives them one last haughty bark, then goes to my mother begging for pats and treats for a job well done.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I apologize for them, Jillian,” Mom says, bending down to scratch Spanky behind his ear. “Sometimes I think they’re still sixteen years old.” My mother’s face assuages my anger, but not my guilt.

Dad enters the doorway. “Mary, can I have a minute with Jillian?”

Mom nods and goes back inside, and, to my surprise, takes Spanky in with her. Dad comes over and sits down next to me. This is even worse than the job where I was stuck in an air duct for three hours. Even the sneezing, stuffy nose, and red eyes were a walk in the park compared to this. Dad is still quiet and is staring his boots.

“Jillian, why do you think you can’t do this?” he says softly. He sounds tired, but not yet defeated. His last chance is teetering on the edge of the decision next to him.

I’ve formulated my reasons and they sound good in my head, but when I open my mouth to say them, they sound like excuses. Excuses for abandoning my family for the fast-paced and glamorous life of killing. I kill people all the time for money, but when my own flesh and blood needs me, not just wants someone dead, but needs that person dead to save them all, I hesitate. I hesitate from fear of what my family will become.

“Dad,” I say slowly, “I haven’t had time to properly plan this. If I get caught, I would go to jail. I think the rest of you would be safe because there’s no evidence that you asked me to do this, but the town would have its suspicions. And you know that the stigma can be just as bad as going to jail itself.”

My father looks in my eyes. “We’re all willing to take that chance. We have faith in your capabilities. You are the most competent of our children,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know you think we love Robbie and Kevin more because they stayed on the farm, but your mother and I are so proud of you. You’re completely self-sufficient; Kevin has never moved out.” My dad gives a small chuckle. “He still sleeps in his James Bond sheets. But I want you to know that we have nothing left to lose except this farm.” He pauses and looks out over the fields. “Our family’s been here for generations, and I think that’s worth fighting for.”

I am silent for a moment. “But Dad, all those other people who hired me were strangers. I didn’t know them and afterwards, I’d never see them again. I’d never have to think about it again. But if I do this, every time we see each other, in our heads we’ll be thinking, ‘We killed Charlie Gasperson.’” I lean my head onto my hands.

Dad heaves a big sigh and hugs me tight. “I know, honey. I guess we’ll deal with that when it comes. But this is our home. I’m not going to hand it over to a man with no scruples so he can level it. Jillian,” he says as he pulls back, “please. Please help us.”

I cry like a five-year old.

…

My finger twitches on my custom-made 22-45 Ruger pistol. The silencer is on, laser scope off, for now. Soon, I’ll turn it on to get a bead on Mr. Gasperson’s right temple. One sweet little bullet from my pretty blue-steeled gun and my family will live. But for now, I must wait.

2005-03-22T21:02:00.000-05:00

Wa Naaa! Short hair! look at the shortness! It's so short! Damn, it ain't never been that short!

2005-03-22T21:01:00.000-05:00

Me, long hair, roughly to shoulders....

2005-02-27T13:24:00.001-05:00

This is an adorable kitten

2005-02-27T13:24:00.000-05:00

This is the Gary!!

2005-02-27T13:23:00.000-05:00

Me in the tech box at "What's Left of Him?" If you're at Appalachian State later this semester, come check it out.

2005-02-27T13:11:00.000-05:00

"Ox Can Fly" by the Gary!!

Super Powers

2005-02-27T13:04:00.000-05:00

Superpowers

by Genevieve Packer

20 January 2005

“I guess you could call it superpowers,

“But no one is going to save the world with what I’ve got”

- The Dismemberment Plan, “Superpowers”

Dedicated to the genius and comedy of T.O.

We find our heroes, Dick Richards and his trusty sidekick Alan Denney, enjoying a relaxing evening of chess, an evening without crime fighting. But in Fall City, things are never quiet for long…

“King me!” Alan cried triumphantly.

Dick had a deep, hearty laugh at the stupid boy’s expense. “This is chess, Alan, not checkers!”

“Oh gosh,” Alan said, eyes cast downward in shame, “boy, do I feel silly.”

“Not to worry, Alan,” Dick kindly condescended, “you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

Alan immediately perked up. “Say, you’re right! I’ve just got to keep practicing is all.”

Dick smiled. “Atta-boy, Alan. A positive attitude will always take you far in life.” He relaxed into the French recliner, an antique from the rule of a French king who’s name Dick had never cared to remember, gazed at his young ward, and indulged in some rare, inward contemplation. Having such an optimistic sidekick certainly comes in handy, he thought. Like when Alan was put in traction for three months. It wasn’t my fault that I knew to duck Captain Gluetastic’s bubble ray and Alan was standing right behind me. Dick gave an inward shudder at the thought of Alan’s body being hurled against the concrete wall, Bending in ways God had never meant a person’s body to bend; I’ll never get that image out of my magnificent brain. Besides, Captain Gluetastic did apologize, and sent flowers to boot. It was too bad that Mouse Man escaped because we had to stop fighting and help Alan.

Dick almost felt a twinge of resentment towards Alan, but quickly remembered that if Alan hadn’t been by his side it would have been Dick with the broken bones and Dick’s dashing face wouldn’t look quite so dashing under his mask.

Alan smiled back at Dick and returned his attention to the chess board, gritting his teeth. Alan Denney consoled his bruised ego with the thought of Dick’s raven-haired, decapitated head at his feet, while he, Alan Romulus Denney IV, would sit in the large leather command chair with the Super Galactic Virtutron 7000 computer, Scat Mobile, Scat Plane, Scat Diver, Scat Boat, Scat Cycle, Scat Gadgets, and their Scat Butler, Mumfred, at his disposal. He would be the greatest superhero the world had ever known…once he got rid of Dick Richards. The pampered playboy had been living on Easy Street for far too long, and one day Alan would relocate him to… Damn, Alan fumed, why can I never think of a clever quip when I want to?

For now, Alan would keep his mouth shut and play the fool. Dick would never know what hit him until he rolled over and saw Alan with a two-by-four. Hey, a two-by-four might not be such a bad idea, Alan thought, but quickly dismissed it when he realized how simple it was compared to his other, much more grandiose, plans.

Um…Our, uh, our dynamic duo’s…um…quiet evening would soon be disturbed by an urgent call from the mayor… (Hey Mike, are you sure this is right? No, I don’t know why there’s a discrepancy in the copy. No, the thought bubbles are all wrong. Come here and look…come here…no, YOU come over HERE…)

“BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP…”

“Uh, Dick, why are you making that noise?”

“The alarm’s on the fritz, but the light still works, so, you know, I thought I’d just do it myself just to keep the two even.” Dick cleared his throat as Alan stared at him. Alan thought that this might be easier than he initially planned.

Dick lifted the glass dome that covered their bright red telephone, glowing with urgency. It was covered in a dome to perpetuate the story they told company about it being a rare antique Luftwaffe emergency phone.

“Yes Mayor Killiam? The Museum of Art? Thousands of priceless artifacts? A discount for children under 12? You don’t say?”

“Is someone robbing the Museum of Art?” asked Alan.

Dick put his hand over the mouthpiece. “No, the Mayor just called to tell us about the big gala event this weekend…oh wait.” Dick returned his attention to the buzzing in his ear. “Yes, I see, Mayor. Yes, it would be wise for us to be there…just in case evil decides to rear its ugly head. Absolutely, Mayor, we are the princes of discretion. Yes, I believe I do have a tux. Very well, Mayor, we shall see you Saturday night. Good-bye.”

Dick hung up the phone and carefully replaced the glass dome. “It seems, my coquettish cohort, that the Mayor is expecting some trouble this Saturday at the museum. We’ll have to be on our guard and keep a lookout…for evil.” Dick glared into the distance, squinting like Clint Eastwood. But much more dashing, he thought.

Alan quietly slipped away while Dick glared and squinted and headed down to the Scat Cave. At the moment Alan was pondering the use of arsenic to take down the portentous parvenu. Mumfred’s food was so good Dick would never notice the slightly bitter taste. He certainly didn’t have any superpowers that would protect him, so Alan figured it would only be a matter of time. But, Alan thought, it would take far too long and could be discovered before the poison had a chance to kill him. No, there are too many holes with that one. A hoe of contemplation dug rows into Alan’s brow. He would have to come up with a new plan to dispose of his arrogant ally. In the meantime, the daily injections of radioactive particles would continue. All the best superheroes, Über Man, Blue Fire, Tarantula Guy, Hamster Boy, and Captain Sweden, had gained their powers through some sort of radioactivity. Alan had not yet decided on whether to mix in the DNA of a cheetah or a mountain goat. Whatever changes might occur once the radioactive cells began to take effect, Alan wanted to be sure that he would still look hot for the babes that would be sure to follow. His two favorite super heroines were Cat Lady and Super Ewe, so he thought either one would be a safe choice.

Alan prepared the syringe using the Scat Cave chemistry lab. Dick rarely went in there, mostly because he didn’t know the first thing about science and had a pathological fear of test tubes. Sure, he could kick a little ass, use the gadgets that Alan made, and smile handsomely for the cameras and the adoring fans, but Dick wouldn’t know the difference between bicarbonate and baking soda. Alan smiled a little at the thought of Dick drinking hydrochloric acid thinking it was Sprite, the smirk spreading across his face as he recommenced thinking up diabolical deeds to knock Scat Man off his pedestal.

(No, Mike, I’m pretty sure it isn’t supposed go like this. Do you think anyone will notice? You better hope not, because they’ll come looking for you first if they do. You know who. Yeah, you don’t wanna mess with THEM. Look, I gotta get back.) ::ahem:: Meanwhile, across town in the old abandoned bleachery, trouble was planning a surprise for the big gala at the art museum…

Nister Naughty had gathered his cronies about him over blueprints of the Museum of Art. He had discussed it with the men and they had decided on “Plan Alpha Delta 39,” or “Pump Knockout Gas in Through Ventilation Ducts, Walk In Front Door, Take What We Want, and Leave.” It was a solid plan and had yet to fail them. Of course, Nister and his crew had only assembled together about two weeks ago. So far, they had robbed a liquor store, a McDonald’s, and a library (they were educated as well as villainous). Nister and the Naughties were ready for the big time.

Henchman Number 12, or Fred, had created their disguises; large sunglasses and top hats to cover their evilly arched eyebrows and skull caps (and Nister’s vibrant, orange hair) and tuxes to cover their black leotards with the red exclamation points. Fred was a hard worker and dedicated to moving up in the ranks. If he could make it into the top ten of the henchmen hierarchy, he and his wife could buy that nice little cottage on Maple Road that they’d had their eyes on for the last few months.

Saturday night was quickly approaching, so Nister and his Naughties began gathering their materials and disguises and going over the plan step by step. They knew preparation was the key, especially for the unexpected. Nister was impressed by the henchmen’s efficiency and ingenuity; Number 5 had an emergency meeting place set up and Number 16 had made those little exploding balls of smoke in case things got too hairy. Finally, Nister organized his men to canvas the party to find Scat Man and his precocious pal, Wonder Lad.

“Men, we are about to embark on the most challenging heist of our careers.” Nister paced back and forth through the dim lighting, fingers on his devious goatee. “Some of you may have heard that Scat Man and his pool boy will be at the museum. But,” he cried, piercing the air with a raised finger, “that’s not going to stop us. Scat Man has no superpowers really to speak of…and his name is Scat Man. How dangerous can a guy be who’s named after what I find in my cat’s litter box?”

This brought several chuckles from the henchmen because poop jokes are always funny.

Nister waved the men silent and continued. “I know that some of you are a little worried because you’ve heard the stories about Scat Man and what a great ass-kicker he is. But I’ve been studying Scat Man, and without his fancy gadgets he’s just a school-yard bully. It’s the kid we’ve got to worry about.” Nister eyed his henchmen sternly. “Under no circumstances are any of you to engage in fisticuffs with that guy. Because you’ll lose.” Nister pulled down the projection screen and turned on the overhead. “If he approaches you in an aggressive manner, use ‘Duck and Maneuver: Figure 18’ and run,” he said, pointing to the diagram. “Throw down one of those smoke ball thingies for good measure. But you need to get out of there as fast as you can.” Nister looked into the adoring eyes of his henchmen and felt a gentle squeeze on his heart. “Let’s make sure that everyone is around for a piece of the pie.” Nister paused and waited for the lump in his throat to pass. Turning his back he dismissed his team. “Those are some of the best damn henchmen I’ve ever had,” Nister sniffled.

Um…oka-ay. Uh, the night of the big museum opening had arrived. Fall City’s rich and famous were decked out in their evening best. Scat Man and Wonder Lad were mingling amongst the upper crust, looking very dashing in their tuxes and, er, masks. Right. The Mayor was quite pleased with how the evening was going. But little did he know that certain party-crashers were already circulating around him…

The Mayor, fat and jovial with his white handlebar mustache quivering with the excitement of the evening, approached Scat Man with a drink is his pink fist. He was drunk again, and happier for it.

“My dear boy, how are you? I hope you’re enjoying the festivities,” the Mayor slurred as he slapped Scat Man on the back just a little too hard. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many foxy ladies in my life! A long, but still youthful, life. You remember that, son,” he said with a wide, sloppy grin. The Mayor turned his attention to a blonde passing the punch bowl. “Hey, Miss, have you ever been interested in politics?” he called, stumbling in her direction. Scat Man gave Wonder Lad a knowing smile, secretly thinking about how much tail he’d be getting once they thwarted whatever villains may be showing up. His personal tailor had trimmed and fitted his tux to go on the outside of his costume, but still reveal his navy cape. The spiked border on the cape is a nice touch, he thought. Dark spikes are very intimidating and make me look very edgy. Scat Man checked the loose cap on his left incisor with his tongue before flashing his two-thousand dollar smile around the room. Five women stopped what they were doing and (quickly) strolled over to Scat Man, leaving the people they’d been talking to somewhat put off.

“Why Scat Man, there isn’t going to be any trouble here tonight, is there?” a particularly busty blonde cooed in his ear.

“No, of course not, Wonder Lad and I are just huge fans of…this guy,” Scat Man replied, waving at painting on the wall.

“Gauguin. It’s Gauguin,” Wonder Lad pointed out to the tall brunette fingering Scat Man’s cape.

“Uh-huh,” she said, but quickly returned her attention to Scat Man’s chest emblem peeking out from between the buttons on his shirt.

Poor little guy, Scat Man thought, he just can’t talk to girls. Maybe I should show him that filmstrip, “Women: The Never-Ending Mystery.” There are some lessons to be learned, like That-Time-of-the-Month and I’ve-Got-a-Headache…Take-Out-the-Garbage and Clean-Up-Your-Toenail-Clippings. And their smell. Scientists still don’t know how girls get to smelling so good. But you’ve got to watch out, he thought, his smile turning to a stony glare, his eyes narrowing with purpose. Some will try to suck out your soul while you’re sleeping.

He’s squinting again. He must be thinking pretty hard this time. Wonder Lad leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the vulgar display of hero worship, the irony that it was he who did most of the work, not Scat Man, was not lost on him. He built the inventions and upgraded the Scat Mobile, he trained daily and took down the most villains. But when the police would show up and the crowd would gather, they would automatically assume that it was Scat Man who had done such wondrous deeds because he was the hero and Wonder Lad was the sidekick. And the kicker is that I have to keep him on that pedestal and keep the public from knowing what a bumbling idiot he is, because if I didn’t I’d be tainted by association. Wonder Lad closed his eyes to the burning bitterness welling up inside him. But if I lost my partner in the act of defeating a villain, well, that’s another story, isn’t it? His lips curled upwards as he checked his watch, wondering when the bad guys would get there, as he knew they would. He was, in fact, counting on it.

Nister had spotted Scat Man and Wonder Lad because they were, after all, the only ones there wearing masks. He turned his face to his collar, and through smiling teeth hissed, “Start pumping the gas boys.” Nister gave the signal to the men in the room and they all placed their gas masks on. Billowing clouds of green smoke (because knockout gas is always green, purple, or red) rolled into the room. At first, the crowd panicked, and tried haul their large behinds, weighed down with money, jewels, and booze, to the doors. But several of the rich white women tripped and fell, blocking all paths and knocking down other patrons.

Nister’s muffled laughter rang in his own ears as the last overly-wealthy attendee collapsed. Nister gave the high sign and the smoke stopped. As the haze cleared, Nister and his men shed their disguises and gas masks and picked their way through the crowd, taking wallets, watches, jewelry, cummerbunds, and a few choice art pieces. Suddenly, Nister saw a giant blue “THWACK!” burst overhead. He groaned and turned to see Scat Man and Wonder Lad take down Number 16.

“Ha-ha! I suppose you thought we wouldn’t come prepared for knockout gas! Ha!” laughed Scat Man. “We’ve been crime-fighting long enough to learn a thing or two about how you villains operate!”

BANG! SMASH! RRRRIP! The duo took out three more henchmen with a chair, a vase, and a 300-year-old painting.

“Get Scat Man!” Nister screamed.

Henchmen 13 through 19 (minus Number 16) ran towards Scat Man with great force and purpose while the others continued to stuff their bags with stolen goods, but the three in front were all brought to a startling halt by a roundhouse kick from Wonder Lad and knocked into those behind them. Nister could only stand helplessly by, watching Wonder Lad break Henchmen 15’s arm, SNAP, at the elbow, uppercut Number 18’s jaw, PIZZAM, so hard he bit off his own tongue, and hurl Number 19 across the room, followed by Number 14 and 17, whose faces, OUCH, now had each other’s teeth buried in them. The sickening CRACK of Number 19’s knee bending backwards almost made Nister lose his lunch. Scat Man, in the meantime, was still busy with Number 13 who was holding his own and had gotten a few good shots in.

“Figure 18, Figure 18! What did I tell you?” Nister cried.

“Ha! Seems like your men are a little less than capable of handling a couple of superheroes, ow,” Scat Man said gleefully as Number 13 popped him in the left cheek.

Nister’s eyes flared and he strode to his henchman and Scat Man and threw a fist squarely into Scat Man’s jaw, sending him to the floor. “You take that back,” Nister hissed.

Scat Man rubbed his jaw and glared at Nister. “That hurt. I hope you like nurses because you’ll be seeing a lot of them when I’m through with you!” Scat Man heaved himself up off the floor and put his fists up like an early-century British boxer.

But Wonder Lad had finished savagely beating Number 11 and was heading their way. Nister knew that he wouldn’t stop, not even for the sake of saving the irreplaceable art. Nister frantically grasped his net gun from its holster and fired at Scat Man, who immediately became entangled and fell to the floor helpless.

Wonder Lad paused in the midst of heaving Number 12 headfirst into the wall. He dropped his nearly-unconscious enemy and made a move to aid Scat Man. Nister saw his chance; he scrambled together the walking-wounded and slightly-bruised to carry their broken cohorts and they all ran away, throwing down smoke bombs as they went and vanished into the night. Except for the trail of smoke. They disappeared when they ran out of smoke bombs.

Wonder Lad had half-heartedly jogged after the gang of black and red leotarded men headed by a lanky beanpole in a more elaborate black and red leotard with a shock of tangerine hair standing up on his scalp. He stopped at the door and returned to Scat Man, who was still struggling with the 3’x 5’ net. Wonder Lad bent down and removed a poisoned dart from his boot, and placed it in a short tube.

Scat Man stopped struggling and stared at him. “Why Wonder Lad, friend of friends, what are you doing with that dart?”

Wonder Lad sighed. “Scat Man…Dick. You’re not a very good superhero, you know. You should really step aside while people still think you’re great.”

“But Wonder Lad, surely you can’t think—”

“And what kind of name is ‘Scat Man?’ Seriously, when did you think that one up? While catching up on some light reading in the john?”

“What do you mean? Scat Man: like I make my enemies and evildoers scatter. It’s part of the family motto.”

“Oh,” Wonder Lad sneered, “the family who conveniently died and left you millions so that you could live in the lap of luxury while occasionally getting off your rear to ‘fight crime.’ The millions that, I might add, enable you to be a ‘superhero’ without actually having ‘superpowers.’”

“But I use my brains and physical strength and discipline. That surely makes up for not having superpowers. In fact, doesn’t that make me a greater superhero because I don’t have superpowers to make things easy?”

“Dick…you’re caught in a net. A small net. Your brains and physical strength and discipline don’t amount to much without me.”

“You don’t have superpowers, either,” pouted Scat Man.

“Actually, I do,” Wonder Lad grinned, his eyes flashing green. He pulled the collar of his tux and suit to reveal a clump of sandy fur growing on his chest.

“You finally hit the last stage of puberty!” Scat Man exclaimed. “Good for you!”

“No, you moron, I’ve been injecting myself with radiated cheetah DNA. I’ve only just started seeing the effects, but I’m quicker, tougher, and more sensitive to my surroundings than you will ever be.” He turned back to the dart, fingering the tuft of feathers at the end. “Once I get rid of you, I’ll inherit everything and become the greatest superhero of all time. I’ll use the Scat lab to continue my experiments to make me a stronger, faster, smarter superhero and lead the world to a golden age.”

Wonder Lad took aim as Scat Man’s eyes widened in horror. “What do you think my new name should be? The Spotted Fury? Mr. Glory? Cheetan?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I’ll have time to think about it later. Like I said: First, I have to get rid of you.” Wonder Lad took a breath and—

WHOA! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!

“Wha—? What the hell is that?” Wonder Lad shouted, frantically looking about, trying to see where the booming voice had come from.

THIS IS THE NARRATOR. STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND DROP THAT DART!

“The narrator?! What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be up in a pink square on page 16?”

“Oh, thank God!” Scat Man wept.

WONDER LAD, YOU’RE IN VIOLATION OF CODE 3694, SECTION 105, PARAGRAPH 13: “NO CHARACTER MAY DEVIATE FROM THE SCRIPT IN A WAY THAT CHANGES THE OUTCOME OF THE STORY.” WONDER LAD, THIS IS FROM THE TOP. YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE.

“Oh…crap.” Wonder Lad hung his head low. Eyes darting upwards, he screamed, “Well, you’re too late! You can’t stop me from fulfilling my destiny! Not after putting up with him for the last 29 issues!” Wonder Lad glanced down at the still helpless Scat Man. “You can’t stop me!” Wonder Lad brought the blow dart up to his lips once again and inhaled—

NO, YOU’RE DONE.

With that, the narrator blacked out the scene and ended the comic book.

And that's the, erm, not... very...exciting conclusion. Ok. It's over now. Go, stop reading. But be sure to read next week’s issue: “A Dummy is No Dummy!”

2005-01-10T01:09:00.000-05:00

Picture by Gary!!

Cactus

2004-12-15T13:47:00.000-05:00

Cactus

By Genevieve Packer

Sitting here wishing on a cement floor

Just wishing that I had just something you wore

I put it on when I grow lonely

Will you take off your dress and send it to me?

- Pixies, “Cactus”

“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
- Dr. Johnson

…

I think sometimes that there are two types of people in this world: Those who fuck others and those that want to be fucked. I am currently of the opinion that I must be of the latter group.

I am driving through the desert, the goddamn desert, going after my girlfriend of six years. Sara disappeared from our apartment two weeks ago. I knew she had run off because she always takes all the 7 Up in the fridge when she does.

I hadn’t heard from her until the day before yesterday when I received her white cotton sundress in the mail. There was a wine stain down the front of it; a thin stem down to the crotch where it blossomed out across the skirt. Most people would think that she has mental problems. I would not disagree.

So I thought about it for a bit, called in at work, packed up my old Pontiac GTO and headed for the return address she left on the package. I’m kind of surprised she bothered; she usually makes me pull out the magnifying glass to read the postmark. Then it’s usually three or four days hitting all the bars asking if anyone’s seen her. It’s harder than it sounds, so after the second night I usually just end up picking a bar and sitting there drinking all night until she shows up.

Hi. My name is Jack. And I’m an idiot.

…

The floor of the gas station bathroom is so dirty I wouldn’t ask the mangiest of dogs to eat off it. I’ll try to ignore the rolling hills of used condoms at the entrance. Luckily, I pee standing up, so I can avoid contact with everything around me, though I’m still squirming in my Adidas sneakers, sure that somehow the immense filth is crawling its way into my socks.

When we first met, I was three sheets to the wind and Sara was well on her way. I had stumbled in on her having sex with the host of the party we were at while looking for the bathroom. My brain’s cogs grinded with great effort and I stood there squinting at her for about 30 seconds too long before I realized what was going on. She was staring back at me. Sara began putting her clothes back on despite the slurred protests of her partner. I mumbled an apology and started to trip back to the door when she asked for me to come have a seat.

I really had to pee. Her request was so absurd that I crossed my legs so I’d have time to think it over. But the bladder had won over and I fled out the door and down the hall.

I was finishing up when she leaned in the doorway and gave my shoulder a tap. I pissed all over the seat. Stuffing myself back into my pants, I nearly turned around and slugged her. But I stopped, because the look on her face was begging me to hit her. So I kissed her instead.

…

It’s dark outside and I pop my Tom Waits cassette into the tape deck. I’m almost through the latest little dot on the map and will be re-entering the desert soon. I have to remind myself to watch the road and not the street lights passing over my knuckles on the steering wheel.

“Nobody’s up except the moon and me…” Tom’s voice is how I imagine my heart looks at this point. Life with Sara has not been kind to it.

The first time I caught Sara with another guy, I threw a toaster at his head and told him to get the fuck out. Sara wouldn’t answer my questions and went into the kitchen to make coffee like nothing had happened. I burned the sheets and still not a word from her. I should have kicked her out then, but I think that’s exactly what she wanted me to do. She expected me to throw her out, to hit her, spit on her, toss her on the pavement. But I didn’t. Looking back, I really couldn’t tell you whether it was because I loved her so much or because I wanted to hurt her as much as she hurt me. But of course, that would be impossible. There is nothing I could ever do to punish Sara more than she punished herself. In some way, I felt I had deserved it.

I’m not the smartest person in the world. I consume books, but failed English. There aren’t many people who have read War and Peace; I have, six times over, but it makes no difference to the piece of paper in front of you asking you to put coherent thoughts in order and make an argument for or against the protagonists actions. To my mother’s disappointment, I dropped out of community college and began working with a moving company to support myself and Sara. I’m not going anywhere, nor do I expect I ever will. My mother sighs over my wasted potential.

Sara would be my punisher to cleanse me of my life’s sins. If I could survive her, then my debts would be paid. It wouldn’t matter that I would never amount to anything, that I broke my poor mother’s heart by being a less-than-nothing nobody because I, and I alone, was able to keep Sara sane and safe. I cling to her because she is my salvation.

We developed a schedule: go to work, come home, have sex, drink, go to sleep. Sometimes we’d find time to eat in between. But we didn’t splurge on the alcohol, none of that fancy bourbon or pricey whiskey shit. If I was going to get drunk, paint thinner would work just as well as any $15 bottle of gin, so I’d buy the cheap vodka in the sales aisle. We didn’t eat much and our apartment was sparsely furnished, so we were living well within our means and even saving up a little money for a car. My mother always commented on how thin I was and insisted that I visit at least three times a week for a good home cooked meal. So I’d show up with Sara in tow, both of us half-cut but riding even, and we’d gorge ourselves on mom’s stew and biscuits.

It was a delightfully comfortable existence.

Our fights even had a routine. I would catch her at a party with someone, throw him out, yell at her. She would shove me aside and start walking home, and I’d chase after her, still yelling. We’d get home, head straight for the bottle (Because that was the surest way end an argument. You can’t yell when you’re too drunk to make words) and pass out on the floor. I’d wake up after an hour or so, pick her up and take her to bed. She would curl up against me, her hand in my hair, her leg wrapped around mine, and start quietly snoring. It was moments like that that made me love her. She was safe and she was mine.

…

A cop taps on my window and tells me to move along, this isn’t no goddamn hotel. I do as he says and get back on the road, stopping after an hour at Denny’s for breakfast. The towns are getting smaller and more rundown the farther I go. But the cactus flowers are in bloom, like they’re trying to spruce up these desert towns a bit.

Sara’s dress lies next to me in the car. I can still smell her on it. I use it as my pillow at night and fly it out my window on the long, lonely stretches of road. She’s never been gone for this long. I wonder if Sara is really waiting for me out there, if she’s not dead and this dress is just her shell left behind for me to find. Driving through the desert, I imagine that the sun simply burned her up into sand and the night winds blew her to the four corners. I’m getting close now, maybe another three hours or so until I get to Hope, Arizona. Sara must’ve sent the package in one of the larger towns nearby, because Hope consists of an RV park, a gas station, and an antique store. You think I’m kidding. At least this time it’ll be easier to find her.

…

Sara began disappearing two years ago. The first time was a Tuesday. When she didn’t come home I called the hospitals, the jails, the police, anyone I could think of who might know where she was. I went through half a carton of cigarettes before she came back. She had been gone for four days when I found her sleeping on the back steps.

She had been having sex. I could smell it on her; she reeked of it. I had stopped being angry at her for sleeping with other men; I was her lover and her safety net. She could go out, have sex with men she knew would beat her up afterwards, then come home to me where she was safe for a time. I didn’t understand then why she ran away.

So I asked her. She looked at me with bloodshot eyes, black underneath with wear and exhaustion, and said, “You’re too good for me.” She wasn’t complimenting me; she was simply stating how she viewed the harsh reality of our life together.

She said that a lot, and always made sure that I knew when she had been out with other guys. I think she thought she could push me away and make me leave her. Like one day I’d have an epiphany, “Oh my God, she’s right! I am too good for her! Why, oh why did I waste all this time on a girl like her when I could have had Betty from the next block over, and we could have had a white picket fence and fat, happy babies for me to bounce on my knee?”

I drew her a bath, sponging her back and massaging shampoo into her hair. She was reclining in the tub while I did this and I watched her breasts float on the water and her black pubic hair dance. Her small stomach dimpled and puckered her bellybutton. I could never leave a woman with a stomach like that.

I also saw the bruises on her thighs and upper arms. She was like a small bird, placed in my care, but no matter how many times I tried to keep her safe, she would fly into the window, slamming into it over and over again. Her problems were too immense for me to hold; but I was determined to bear the burden, so I did the only thing I knew how to do. I rubbed her back and told her it would be okay. What a comfort I must have been.

…

I head for the RV park, figuring that would be the best place to find her, since there is no bar; thankfully I have brought half a gallon of vodka in the trunk for us, or I should say what’s left of half a gallon. It’s been a long trip.

I park near the entrance so if she’s walking around she’ll be able to see my car. There’s nothing to do but wait.

Around five, I put the dress over my face and lean back for a nap. Not long after, I hear the passenger door open and close. I take the dress off my face and turn to face Sara as she puts a trash bag with her clothes in it by her feet. Her hair is dry and windblown and she has a tan. Her lips are a pale pink and white, strips peeling off with tiny gashes of red. She is wearing another one of her white sundresses. Lately, that’s all she seems to want to wear. There is a partial bloody handprint dried at the bottom; when I look at her questioningly, she smiles with her cracked lips and says, “Cut my hand on a cactus tree.”

I nod and begin driving.

“I met a Hopi Indian,” Sara says.

“They still have those?”

“Yes, they do. She lives out in the desert in one of those houses made of clay. She took me there.”

I wait for her to continue, but she’s just staring out the window at the cacti.

“What did you do out there?”

Sara turns her eyes to the horizon in front of us. “I asked her to cleanse me. She tried, she tried really hard. But it wasn’t enough.” She is fingering the blood on her dress.

I don’t know what to say, so I grunt and turn on the radio. Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs are playing their hit, “Stay (Just a Little Bit Longer)” on the golden oldies station. I sink into the dulcet tones of his crooning.

…

Dusk is settling down quickly and soon it is dark. We stop after a few hours for coffee and to find a place to park and sleep. The coffee is stale in the roadside café, but the pie is delicious.
Sara wakes me up. It’s still dark, but I can see the barrel of the gun she has pointed at me glinting with a coldness that I imagine I would see in Sara’s eyes at this point. She instructs me in a low voice to drive. I drive.

We’re in the desert. It looks much different at night than in the daytime. Everything looks menacing and evil, waiting to gobble you up should you venture too near. She tells me to drive a ways off the road, actually into the desert, into the jaws awaiting us out there. She has to jab me in the ribs to make me turn.

I park the car and we get out. She motions me away from the car, roughly twenty paces out. I’ve never been so scared in my life, not because the woman I love has a gun pointed at my head, but because we’re in the fucking desert in the middle of the night. I know there’s some sort of large rabid coyote lurking in the shadows behind the cacti waiting to devour us both.

Sara backs away from me slowly, and throws another gun at my feet. “Pick it up, Jack. Pick it up or I will shoot you right now.” I do what she says.

“Sara, what are we doing? What the fuck are we doing out here?” I have to yell over the screaming winds whipping around us, kicking up the sand into my eyes.

“One of us has to go, Jack, one of us has to die,” she shrieks. “I’ve carried this as long as I can and now you’ve got to end it. I can’t do it by myself!”

My arms are numb and frozen as I realize what she is saying. She has the look of a terrified, cornered animal and I know she will shoot me if I stall for too long.

“This is crazy, Sara, what are you doing? You’re not a martyr!”

“Grow a fucking backbone Jack, for once in your life! You just keep taking it and taking it! Why can’t you let me go?”

I pause for a moment, unsure of what to say.

“Why don’t you just stop, Sara? I love you, why don’t you stop?”

She laughs a dry, hoarse laugh that makes my skin crawl. “Why do you think I slept with all those men? Because I like sex? Because I like feeling like a whore?”

She grins wildly at me. “I did it because they would like me and be with me for a short period of time and then leave. They would leave because I don’t deserve for them to stay! You don’t love me! How could you? I have tried to make you realize that people like me don’t deserve love; that the best we can hope for is that someone will take pity on us for a short time and then let us go on our miserable way. But YOU wouldn‘t walk away! You wouldn’t because you’re too much of a coward to be alone and face what a disappointment you are to yourself.”

I am shaking so hard I point the gun down in case it accidentally fires. I hate her right then. I hate her for being my tragic, warped twin and I hate her for not being strong enough to make this work. I hate her for being right about me, though I will never admit it out loud. Two people like us should really never try to exist together.

We tear each other apart, hurling insults, and strip each other of our illusions and masks, and as the sun rises we point our guns at each other, quiet for a brief moment at the uncertainty of our future. The winds have slowed and it is just us, alone, naked in front of one another. And so we remain, frozen in a duel that has come to a stand, the sun climbing the sky, oblivious to the two tiny figures below it.

Sara is crying and the dust is sticking to her tears; she looks like the tragedy mask. I have cut her down, exposing her plan for self-destruction, and she knows that I would never give her the satisfaction of killing her to put her out of her misery. The scared little girl in front of me raises the gun to her temple. I don’t try to stop her.

There is an old metaphor that compares a person to a cactus; that though they may be prickly and harsh on the outside, they are green and full of life inside if you take the time to look. But when I broke Sara open, she was hollow and empty and dry inside. When I saw that, I knew that I was too.

2004-12-07T00:48:00.000-05:00

By the Gary!!

The Beginning

2004-12-05T11:17:00.000-05:00

This is my first blog, and since I already have a livejournal, I've decided touse this blog to put my drafts (please remember these are works in progress) of stories, poems, and plays out there so I can receive feedback from the public at large. This shall be, A LITERARY BLOG! If ye do not enjoy reading, ye are ateth the wrong placeth. Comments are welcome and much desired. Thank you, invisible gnomes of the internet!

Strange Days

There’s something wrong. Something’s really, really wrong. But I don’t know just quite what it is yet. I get a kinda funny feelin’ when I go by the offices on the eighth floor, like they think I’m some sort of traitor. But I can’t guess what for. I just push my cart, keep my head down an’ mind my own business. I’m just the janitor; why’re these yuppies in business suits and nice ties lookin’ at me like that? Their cufflinks are worth more than two weeks of my salary. Thing is, I know I’ve seen that look before. It’s that look the animals at the zoo give you when their cage is too small.

The other day I thought I saw a police car outside, so’s on my way past the main desk I asked Simon, the night guard, what was up.
“They said one of the lawyers on the eighth floor got mugged last night. I haven’t the slightest idea what they’re talking about, because no one fitting the mugger’s description came past me.”

He seemed to turn a little red under all his brown and he kinda scowled at the elevator that goes up to business floors.

“Those rookies think they’re hot shit, thought I didn’t hear them giggling about me falling asleep to the Tonight Show because I had eaten too many doughnuts. Fuckers.”

Poor Simon. He was taken off the streets when he caught a stray bullet in the hip. Figured he could at least make decent wages as a security guard behind a desk rather than a has-been cop behind a desk. He’s actually a real smart cat; he memorizes those cards from Trivial Pursuit. He likes to quiz me every night when I stop by before I start my rounds. I think I’m getting better at them, though he still has to help me out a bit.

“Don’t worry ‘bout those assholes, Simon. They’re just jealous that they got such a shitty job wading through prostitutes and crack addicts and you’re a security guard for one of the richest firms in the city. You probably make more in a week than they do in a month.”

That got a smile out of Simon.

“You’re a good guy, Matt. True blue, son, that’s what you are.”

...

They’re havin’ a company party downstairs in the big conference room. I wasn’t invited, heh. I gotta keep an eye out tonight. There’s always three or four of those lawyer guys doin’ some poor intern or secretary in a closet or empty office. If they catch me, they might wanna fire me.

Last year, I found one of the younger guys on top of this pert little redhead. She had her eyes closed and she wasn’t movin’ much. I recognized her from the girls on the fifth floor that make copies and do a lot of the grunt work, like lookin’ up case history and writing summons and stuff. She was always real nice to me, a real polite, friendly girl. I think her name was Margaret.

I kinda stood there for a second watchin’ him do that to her, like my limbs were in as much shock as my brain was. He saw me and jumped up, zipping his fly and smoothing back his greased-up hair, then just walked past me to the elevator. I knelt by the girl, pulled her skirt back down, and tried to sit her up against the desk we were next to. Her eyes were rolled back in her head and she felt kinda like a river trout. I was sayin’, “Wake up darlin’, c’mon now, wake up sweetheart,” and her eyelids would kinda flutter a bit, but other than that I think she was out cold. I called the ambulance, and they came and took her away. I wanted to go with her, but they made me stay behind for questioning. Told ‘em everything I knew, but it didn’t make any difference. She said she’d had too much to drink and that it was a misunderstanding. Thanked me for helping her, but she was gone within three weeks. So was the guy that walked away, but I suspect he got a cushier job than she did.

...

Found a bottle of bourbon in the trash today and a condom wrapper, but no condom. There were two plastic cups too, one with lipstick on it. The one without lipstick looked weird, sort of a blue tint at the bottom.

The guy’s office I found ‘em in, it’s really nice. He’s got an oak desk and a European leather chair behind it. It’s got all dark colors, hunter green and burgundy, stuff like that, and lots of polished wood. The dark cherry kind. Feels really official and regal. I like washing the windows in there; it’s got one of the nicest views of the whole building and it smells like the woods. It’s nice, looking out at the city with its lights on, fifteen floors up. You feel like you’re on top of the world, and if you stepped out the window you’d sail down as gently as a feather. I wonder if the guy who occupies this office ever feels like that?

...

I ran into this beautiful brunette on my way to clean the twelfth floor bathrooms. I thought it was kind of weird that she was there that late, but I figured there was no harm in it.

She smiled and said hello to me. I ‘bout died right there and then. She was a classic beauty, none of that frosted makeup shit girls slather on nowadays. Black suit, skirt just above the knees. Those were some spectacular knees. Felt the back of my neck get hot. She had a silver band on her middle finger on the right hand. Other than that, totally bare. Perfect. I stammered out a hello, and that just made her smile grow wider. I smiled back and asked if she needed help getting to where she was going.

She stopped for a second and looked like she was sizing me up. I guess she made up her mind, and asked if I knew whether the parking deck doors would set off an alarm or not. I told her no, but she’d have still have to pay the guy in the booth for parking. She smiled and thanked me; man, her voice was like a cool breeze to my ears. Said goodnight and glided down the hallway. I watched her back in awe, shook my head, and went on in to the bathroom. One of those lawyer guys was in there washing up. He was rubbing his nose and pretty much ignored me.

Found a tightly rolled up twenty in with the used paper towels. Had some blood on the end of it, but seemed fine otherwise. It was a good night.

...

The law firm I work in is real nice. It’s got lots of glass and golden bronze plating. I ‘specially like the fountain they’ve got in the lobby. There’s a mermaid on the top pouring water out of a jug. But sometimes I get self conscious around all those shiny surfaces where I can see myself.

The lawyers here are really successful; they wear nice suits and carry leather briefcases with their initials on the lock. What I wouldn’t give to have one of those briefcases. That’s why I got so excited when I found one behind the big potted plants on the sixteenth floor. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. It was glossy, smooth and heavy. I was wondering why it was so heavy. I started to take it down to Simon—I was hoping that if it wasn’t claimed in a week or so, Simon would let me keep it. But before I could get to the elevator this lawyer comes running down the hall, yelling at me. He was probably in his late thirties, huffing and puffing along with his tie flying out over his shoulder. He wasn’t fat, really, but he definitely wasn’t in shape. He grabbed it out of my hand, mumbling something about him always losing stuff, and walked quickly back to the office he had run out of. Even though he had been running, his face was pretty white, like he was worried I was going to look inside and find his stuffed animal or something.

...

Things are definitely weird around here. A lot of the higher ranking lawyers look like they’re on edge all the time. Remind me of nervous canaries in a golden cage. Once in a while someone has a black eye or a cut or something bandaged. These really have to be the clutziest group of men I’ve ever run across, but somehow I don’t think they’re accidents. Maybe they’ve got gambling debts, you know, ‘cause I’ve heard some stories that’ll curl your toes about guys that didn’t pay the money they owed. Money lenders don’t mess around when it comes to their cash, whether it’s a banker or a loan shark.

I walked out of the elevator tonight with my mop and bucket and turned to the front desk. Simon stepped out slowly from behind it, putting his hand up near his gun. I dropped my mop and stretched my fingers, put ‘em by my hip. We both drew, bang, and Simon went down. He sat up laughing and I blew the smoke from my finger’s barrel. I’m winning, ten to six.

Simon went back to his chair and sat back looking pretty pleased with himself. I went over and asked him why he felt so smug when I had just shot him deader than a roadside possum.

He leaned towards me like we were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid before a big bank heist.

“Lemme know if you see a curly-haired blond on your rounds. Black suit, nice legs. You’ll know her when you see her kid; she blows most of the girls that work here right outta the water.”

I looked at my watch. It was 7:30 on a Friday night. There was still a good handful of people left in the building doing some late night work for the next day.

“Think she’s one of those escort girls?”

“I don’t know,” said Simon, “but if she is, that’s just one more reason for me to wish I was a millionaire.” He chuckled at his joke with a deep rumble and leaned back into his chair with his hands behind his head.

I smiled and headed off for the elevators.

I pushed the button for the top floor, and examined my face in the reflective metal doors. I needed a shave and a haircut. Popped my headphones on and waved at Simon through the elevator camera. While I was wondering whether or not I should try going back to community college, the doors opened and there she was. Like God had just parted the clouds to reveal an angel. Really, Simon’s description didn’t even come close to doing her justice. Smooth legs in black panty hose; she was short, but her legs weren’t stumpy like they can be on short girls. She looked sweet, even in the black blouse and skirt she was wearing. Skin kinda pale, a hint of freckles on her face. I liked that; she didn’t try to cover ‘em up with makeup. Soft curls, the kind you want to wrap your fingers in and just bury your face and inhale. I smiled, but kept my lips shut to hide my crooked teeth. She grinned back and stepped aside so me and the cart could get off. I sorta wanted to stay on the elevator and go down with her, maybe talk to her, but I had work to do, and that would’ve been way too obvious. So I reluctantly stepped out and rolled a little ways down the hall. I looked back to watch the glint on her right hand as she pushed the elevator button.

One of the doors was locked and the light on inside, so I just kept on moving, figuring one of those lawyers was working late. I think it was around two or three in the morning when I got back down to the lobby. There were cops there, and Simon was looking pissed. He was yelling at the detectives that five people had gone up in the last five hours, and he had known them all except one. I got real worried that something had happened to the girl I met on the twentieth floor, but before I could say anything, one of the cops pointed at me to stop where I was. Kinda irked me, him sounding so angry. I was just standing there. He sent a detective over to talk to me. This detective was not like the ones I’ve seen on TV; he was bloated and old. I couldn’t stop staring at the pussy willows growing out of his nose. He sniffed and ignored my questions, demanding to know if I had seen the blonde. I didn’t want to get her in trouble, but I didn’t want Simon to look like a liar either, so I said I saw her on the fifth floor. The cop grunted, and asked if I had been on the twentieth floor at all that night.

“Yes, I went up there around seven-thirty or eight.”

He kinda squinted his eyes at me and said, “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not really, a few of the doors were locked and one was locked with a light on.”

“You remember which door that was?”

“No.” I really didn’t remember. At the time I was busy thinking about the blond.

The detective cleared his throat and yelled back the information to the head cop. I noticed one of the lawyers standing with him, shaking his head, which had an ugly purple bruise on the right side of his forehead. The bloated one I was talking to told me to stay put and he walked back over to the guy in charge and the lawyer. Simon had thrown his hands up and sat back down in his chair. He can’t stay standing for too long before his hip starts bothering him and he can’t stay sitting too long either, so he’s got a really nice cushy leather chair that gives just the right amount of support to delay the pain.

I was getting a bad feeling in my stomach. I held myself and chewed on my thumbnail. I had taken a cigarette break about an hour ago, but I really wanted to get outside and have another. Things seemed to be wrapping up and the fat detective came over and told me not to leave the city in case they needed to question me again. I watched the cops leave and the lawyer too, and went over to Simon.

“What the hell was that all about?”

“Prick says he got jumped by a mysterious intruder in his office. But like I told the cops, unless that guy can climb walls, no one went past me or the parking deck guard fitting his description. If they don’t believe me, they can check the cameras.”

My heart started doing funny flips in my chest, moving up to my throat. “Do you think they’ll check ‘em,” I choked out, “the cameras, I mean.” I had lied to the cops. Cops arrest liars.

“I don’t know, it sounds like that lawyer just wants to drop the whole thing. And those two buffoons don’t look like they could find their asses with two hands and a flashlight.”

“Right.” I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. Shoved my cart into the sanitary closet, grabbed my stuff and ran outside.

...

The uneasiness around here is catching. They wanted to fire Simon, but he threatened to sue for wrongful termination and discrimination. Simon’s smart; he explained to me that a decorated black cop who was wounded in the line of duty would be the worst person to fire, ‘specially when the police have found no evidence of these muggers or whoever it was causing trouble. He said that the whole black community and lawyers from the ACLU would cause a lot of trouble if they fired him. I told Simon I wanted to see his medals sometime. He laughed and told me I could stop by for dinner one night with him and his wife and see them. That made me real glad. But later, I began feeling worried again. The fat cop never came back or called or anything, and no one ever talked about what had happened. I don’t think there are any muggers. But I don’t think I wanna think about what it could be.

...

I’m sitting outside the firm on the stone steps, leaning against one of the columns that holds up this place. I take a drag of my cigarette, my fourth since I sat down. I feel kinda in a daze, staring at the street light. But I’m resolved.

I walked in on it tonight. Just my luck. She had him over on the desk, face down, and she wasn’t being gentle. He wasn’t resisting or anything; I don’t think he could have if he wanted to. I think he was passed out, but whether it was from shock, or pain, or drugs, I couldn’t say. I got that numb feeling again, and maybe it was because she was a redhead that the image of Margaret lying limp on the floor with that bastard heaving on top of her flashed in front of me. The woman stopped and stared at me and I looked at the floor. I bet my face was turning bright pink.

She rolled her sleeves back down and smoothed her black skirt over her legs. Her right hand had a silver band on it. She took the small club she had been using to defile him and wiped it down with a cloth she had brought. She put them both in a plastic bag and put it in her purse. I felt really embarrassed and gripped onto my mop. She started to walk out the door, when I said, “You left your jacket, miss.”

She stopped and looked at me. The lady went back and picked up her jacket, giving the guy on the desk one last look before she came back towards me. She looked me right in my eyes. It made me uncomfortable. I was a mouse trying not to twitch in front of the cat. Her eyes were large and green, and hard with determination. But they softened and she smiled a little.

“It’s not you we want. Just them. We just want them. You don’t have to worry about anything; the other girls told us about you. Just live your life like you have been, and take care of yourself.”

She patted me on the shoulder and walked out.

I was lost in a fog and floated back down to the first floor. I put my mop and my cart away, said goodnight to Simon and left.

Now I’m sitting here and all I can think about is Margaret. She was a good girl. I would have liked to know her better, taken her out to dinner. But now I’m only left with her on the floor and how she would wince a little the next few days sitting down. And I think to myself, there has to be a balance. I don’t know who these women are. But there’s something about them, like they’re determined to do the dirty work ‘cause there’s no other way to get it done. I think they’ve got their reasons. Maybe I should just let them take care of their business.

I’m getting up. It’s time to go home. As I go to my car, I can’t help but marvel at how much brighter the lights are when you’re down on the ground.