The Deviant

by Adam Sommers

  The people he invited over understood him and were kind-hearted. They were from his charitable groups or the gym nearby. Once in a while his old Baltimore buddies would come down. He would laugh and chat and drink, but he didn’t like any of them all that much. The real purpose of their visits was not to play board games or talk politics or share stories. The real purpose for Arnold McNeill was keeping in touch with humanity and fighting the more or less constant urge to simply go off the grid, to disappear—or to lock the door and never leave, never answer the phone, never even look out the window. So his friends came over, praised his selection of wines, goggled over his high-tech sound system, and showed deep concern for his well-being, secretly saying to themselves, “Man, that guy is he weird.”

  After two or three hours, they were on their way.

  Each time they left, each time he closed the door behind the last guest, it got a little harder for Arnold McNeill to imagine he’d ever invite them back.

  Chapter 24

  Eric Berger blasted out onto the highway and toward his apartment, but he didn’t want to rush into the flat completely freaked out and have to try to explain himself to Mitch. He couldn’t even explain what happened to himself. All he could focus on was a consuming sense of shame and humiliation. His boss had grabbed his cock, had felt him and squeezed him. Why would she do that?

  As he swung off the exit he normally took to get home, he saw the familiar strip mall where he went shopping for food and other essentials. It was anchored by a large Safeway supermarket on the north end. Eric whipped his Honda into the lot and came to screeching halt. There had been no thought behind the decision to stop at the Safeway. It had simply been a parking lot, a place to stop rather than go home, a place to collect his scattered thoughts. He sat for exactly two seconds before being overwhelmed by the need to keep moving, as if the awful visions would catch up to him if he slowed down. The wide glass doors whooshed open as he speedwalked toward them and he soon found himself in the produce section, staring at the bananas, pineapples and piles of tomatoes.

  There were only a handful of other shoppers scattered through the sprawling store, it being late on Sunday night. Some store manager in a blue shirt with a nametag on it gave him a dirty look and followed at a distance, not sure if he should call a cop.

  Go ahead and call, motherfucker, thought Eric. See if I care.

  Part of him hoped the police would come. If they did he would tell them he’d just been sexually assaulted. It would be much easier to tell a cop than someone who knew him—and who would think of the incident every time they talked after that for the rest of their lives.

  Maybe I shouldn’t wait to see if a cop shows up. Maybe I should go straight to the police station. Afterall, a crime had been committed. I’m a victim of a crime. They should help me.

  Eric knew where every police station was in Washington, the nearest being in Northeast, about a twenty-minute drive away, but he had no clue where the little town of Greenbelt hid its cops. Weighing whether to head for a police station or not, he meandered aimlessly through the store. The bright lights and inviting displays were beginning to have a soothing effect. Mechanically he wandered to the far left aisle where they kept the cases of beer. With the manager guy still watching, Eric picked up two six packs of Rolling Rock and went to the checkout. His hands were shaking so badly that when he put the cans on the belt they clattered and nearly bounced off. He looked up at the checkout clerk apologetically.

  “Honey, maybe you shouldn’t,” smiled the wrinkled, blue-haired woman looking at the rattled, sweaty wreck that was Eric Berger.

  “I’m all right,” Eric mumbled, although obviously nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Don’t mind me saying so, sweetie, but you don’t look all right. If you’re sick or something I can call for help. If you have troubles, you can always call on Jesus. He’s right here with you.”

  “No offense, lady, but mind your own damn business,” Eric snapped.

  The old lady’s eyes bulged in shock and Eric quickly said, “Oh, God, I’m really sorry.”

  His face twisted in guilt and he nearly burst out crying.

  The woman, whom Eric knew by sight since she was frequently at the counter when he shopped, eyed Eric skeptically as she silently bagged the six packs. Eric flung a twenty from his shaking hand onto the conveyor belt and hurried out of the store without even waiting for the change.

  He put the beer in the passenger seat and drove toward his apartment complex.

  The woman at the store, whose name was Margaret, had a grandson about Eric’s age and felt the need to protect him. She followed Eric outside, with the manager close behind, and got a partial read on his license plate as the Honda leapt out of the lot. Then she went back inside and called the police. She had no intention of reporting a crime, especially since as far as she knew none had been committed. But she felt almost certain he was going to get into a crash and hurt himself, or worse, whether intentionally or not.

  Despite her urgent plea to the dispatcher, the call was automatically assigned a low priority because there was no crime or even complaint. The best the operator could do was assure Margaret that the sector car would keep an eye out.

  “That would be great,” said Margaret. “You don’t have to tell him who called about it, right?”

  “Of course not, ma’am,” said the dispatcher. “Thank you.”

  Unaware the police were now looking for him, Eric continued toward his building. But since he was nowhere near mentally together enough to face his roommates, he needed someplace else to go, someplace where he could be alone and think and try to figure out what the hell had just happened.

  The perfect spot presented itself a few minutes later when he crested the hill that led to his complex. Past the entrance and only a few blocks down toward the bottom of the hill was the Greenbelt Regional High School. Completely deserted at this hour, for Eric, it was a godsend.

  He pulled his car into the lot at the rear, where the football field was surrounded by the running track. Along the sides of the oval were aluminum bleachers. Eric sat on one of the low benches and stacked the beers next to him, aluminum on aluminum, staring into the vast empty darkness.

  He drank three of the beers, stood and began making counterclockwise laps around the track. He’d walk a few laps, stop for a beer and keep on marching. Drink, walk; drink, walk.

  Back and forth. Time stretched out, the beer did its work and soon Eric relaxed enough to observe that it was a nice night out. There were stars that fought their way through the security lights surrounding the field.

  He soaked in all the sights and sounds, the feel of the light wind and smell of the wet grass. He wanted to burn these things into his mind because he had gradually come to the realization that he most certainly was done working at The Washington Standard. As soon as I get to the office I’ll be fired for whatever contrived reason that psycho comes up with, he predicted.

  But it wasn’t as simple as that. The thought of being pushed out of his job crushed his spirit to the point where he seriously contemplated stepping in front of a bus with a note pinned to his shirt that read: Jayne Grayman tried to fuck me. This is her fault.

  Noooo!

  He threw the idea out of his mind the instant he thought it. I’ll never give her the satisfaction. If anyone’s going to die, it’s going to be Jayne Fucking Grayman. I could kill her and run back to New Jersey. I could stab her, run her over, get a gun and blow her brains out. Maybe Carrie’s friend Fat Tommy can get me a gun instead of drugs. He probably knows those kinds of people. One phone call, one bullet. Blam, good-bye, bitch.

  Knock it off, he scolded. You’re no killer.

  The reasonable and sensible thing to do was to go to the police. That’s what he would tell anyone who came to him in a similar circumstance. But every time he pictured himself trying to explain what happened it see
med less and less sane. All he could see was the detectives taking his complaint, noting that there was not a shred of physical evidence, putting the folder in a drawer and moving on.

  Besides, he soon came to understand, the real problem was not whether to call the police or not. Jayne getting arrested or going to jail was only a secondary consideration. What really caused his searing pain was that one way or the other it seemed inevitable that he’d no longer be able to work at The Standard. Even if she didn’t fire him, how could he still work in the same building?

  “THAT JUST ISN’T GODDAMN FAIR!” he shrieked into the night. The booming sound of his own voice in the still silence scared him. Quietly, he continued, “I didn’t do a damn thing wrong! Why should I lose my job? Why did she come at me? What did she really want? Why is this happening to me? An hour ago I was the happiest person on planet Earth.”

  Gloom enveloped his mind as he pondered these questions. He’d gone through twenty-six years of life and had never encountered anything like a sexual assault. He’d never been mugged, or robbed. But that is what he felt like was about to happen to him. Something precious was being taken away and he was powerless to stop it.

  In the midst of this lowest point of his depression, a glimmer of hope began to creep into his mind as he shuffled down the long back stretch of the oval.

  She had acted completely irrationally, even insanely, back in her office. That much was true. Now, anyone in a position of power or authority who had committed such a vile act would probably want to be rid of the threat that her victim might file charges, or make some other public complaint, as quickly as possible. In other words, it would be logical for her to get rid of him at the first opportunity.

  But it was clear Jayne Grayman was not a rational person, and as such she might NOT do the prudent thing. She might very well forget all about it and go on with her life. Or keep Eric around and try to assault him again, hoping this time she’d get what she wanted.

  I’m grasping at straws, he scolded himself.

  But that thought triggered a memory from out of the blue: sitting with The Post’s cop guy, what was his name? Carl, Carl Schwartz, at The Bench, a little bar outside City Hall. Carl was drinking a gin and tonic with a little cocktail straw and Eric had busted his balls over drinking like a girl. Schwartz, a fifty-something guy, had been around long enough to take ribbing good-naturedly, and they talked some shop while waiting for a press conference to begin. Now, in the high school parking lot, the image of Carl Schwartz’s scraggly face sucking up his drink made Eric think: Jesus, if she fires me, why couldn’t I apply over there, at The Post?

  With all the clips he had from the last couple of months, he figured he’d have a decent shot. Schwartz had even mentioned his editor giving him shit about being scooped by Eric Berger a couple of times. That might be enough leverage to get a job there, keep after the mayor and the fire commissioner. Plus, Eric jumped ahead, he could bring them Julio Nieto when his recovery is a little further along and, of course, the EMS stuff.

  Heaving a big sigh, he concluded there was no immediate need to pack up, step in front of a bus or stab Jayne Grayman to death. Even if The Post wouldn’t have him, there were other options, probably a dozen or more smaller papers in the little counties whose doors he could knock on. Even up in Baltimore. It was possible, unlikely, but possible, he would not have to run back home.

  With that happier thought in mind, he drank the last two of his twelve beers and walked another couple of laps around the track going over these possibilities. Admittedly, the rationalization offered only slivers of light, but they were enough to give Eric an excuse to return to his apartment. As he made his last circle, the sky started to streak lavender, displaying a heavy layer of clouds. It’ll probably pour later on, thought Eric.

  Then, as he was about to get into his car, a green and white Greenbelt Police cruiser curled into the parking lot of the school and pulled up next to him.

  “Shit, just what I need,” said Eric out loud.

  “Evening, sir. How we doing?”

  “Great,” Eric burped, quite sure he was over the legal limit, but he wasn’t driving so, as far as he could tell, he would not be in trouble.

  “Been drinking tonight?” the baby-faced officer asked.

  “Eric held up the empty plastic rings that used to contain twelve cans of beer. “I’d say so,” he said burping loudly again.

  “Driving?”

  “No-o-o-o, sir. Got the beers and came here.”

  The young cop weighed that and thought it seemed reasonable. “Can I see some I.D.?”

  “Happy to.” Eric, with some fumbling, produced his driver’s license.

  “Oh, you live just up the street?”

  “Yup. Rough day at work. Thinking things through is all.”

  “I gotcha,” the cop said, not looking at Eric, but at his license. “Eric Berger?”

  “In the fleshy flesh.”

  “Name seems familiar. I know you?”

  “Don’t think so,” Eric belched again and tasted a little bile. “But I’m very puh-puh-popular.”

  “Mind me asking what you do?”

  “Like for a living?”

  “Yes.”

  “I dig in the dirt, boss. Dig out the worms and maggots.”

  “For real. That’s your job?” said the cop looking doubtfully at Eric.

  “Like this,” Eric said, and pantomimed typing. “Click clack, clickety clack, ching! Zip. Clickety clack, clickety clack, Zing! Typewriter. Get it? I write stories. Work at The Standard. Get the bad guys, like you.” Eric was rocking back and forth, feeling very good about himself. He liked the idea of maybe working at The Post. He liked this friendly young cop and liked having someone to talk to even better. He was preparing to tell the guy the real reason for his drinking, but the cop suddenly said, “Wait, The Standard?”

  “Yup, at least till tomorrow. Whas yer name?”

  “Tomlinson, Sam, Sam Tomlinson. You write for The Standard. You’re like a reporter?”

  “Whoa!” said Eric. “A psychic cop. Someone call Johnny Carson.”

  “I’m not psychic. You just told me,” the cop snickered at how plastered Eric was.

  “Oh, cancel that show,” laughed Eric.

  “The Standard?” the cop continued his train of thought. “That’s the paper had that story about Grissom Lester and the crack whore, right?”

  Eric’s eyes popped open in shock. “Uh, yeah, we did. Guess so. I mean. I did.”

  “You! That was your story? That’s how I saw you. You wrote that?”

  Eric bowed deeply, lost his balance and fell squarely on his forehead in the lot.

  Officer Sam Tomlinson hurried to help him up. “Guys at the station ate that shit up. We know him from years back, the scumbag.”

  “Major scumbag,” Eric confirmed. “Mayor major scumbag,” he said leaning on Officer Tomlinson. “You know what, I like you.”

  Oh, brother, thought Tomlinson, let’s put this boy to bed. “Tell you what, you weren’t driving, so I can’t bust you for that. I could give you a summons for being drunk in public, but since there’s really no public here, I can overlook that, too. You be a good boy, get in my car and I’ll take you up the street to your place. You can sleep it off. How’s that sound?”

  “My man Sam, Sam with a plan. Sam’s gotta plan. Planny old Plan Sam.” Suddenly Eric felt like he was carrying a load of lead, so tired he was unable to say another word, or take another step.

  Officer Sam got him to the apartment, found Eric’s key, opened the door and dumped him on the couch, fully clothed with his shoes still on.

  How much time had elapsed, he did not know, but the apartment was quiet and gray and the wind was rattling the blinds as it whistled in through the drafty windows. Eric’s entire body screamed in agony, from his eyes that thumped against his brain to hi
s legs that felt like iron bars. He mustered enough energy to roll over on his side and promptly puked on the floor.

  Did not see that coming, he thought to himself, a second before he retched again. “Auch! The stench.” He didn’t think he’d even gotten drunk. Since he’d been able to walk around, probably at least three or four miles, he theorized that the exercise had counteracted the booze. How wrong he was. Now, completely immobilized by his unbendable legs, he flailed his arms around like one of those wooden duck lawn ornaments.

  “Mitch!” he yelled in his mind, but what really came out was something like “Maauuaaaakak.” Mitch and Dennis were out at work, it being just past five o’clock in the evening. Eric made a few more futile cries for help, then gave up. Using his arms, he dragged himself off the couch then barfed again. “Fuck!”

  When he finally did get to the bathroom he slithered right past the toilet and directly into the tub. He turned on the water so that if any more wanted to come out it could just be washed down the drain.

  Thirty minutes later, the hot water gone, his stomach empty, he was just beginning to think about somehow cleaning up when he heard the front door open.

  “AWWWF, SHIT.” The smell hit Mitch Lozatti like a bat, and his first thought was that someone was dead. “Eric!” he yelled in panic even before he saw the mess on the living room floor and the streaks going down the hall to the bathroom.

  Then he heard a noise he knew all too well and went to investigate. Eric was sitting in the shower in his clothes covered in puke and dripping wet.

  “So, how was your day?” Mitch laughed “Muh ha hahh, muh hu.”

  Eric looked up and managed to make the tiniest of waves.

  “Love what you’ve done with the place,” Mitch carried on. “I see you’ve gone with an aquatic theme.”

  Eric wanted to simultaneously hug and kill Mitch.

  “And the smell…what is that, lilac? No, wait, cinnamon, cinnamon, it is.”

  “I’ll give you two thousand dollars if you stop talking,” said Eric groggily.