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Copyright ©2004 by Steven Lee Climer
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"Pain has nothing to do with Heaven and Hell."
—The Island of Dr. Moreau(H.G. Welles)
Cold Call
I couldn't get much lower in life, I thought while dialing the next number on my call sheet. A Bachelor's degree was supposed to mean I didn't have to do crap like this. Five years at UT-Martin and an internship at Channel 5, I should have been someone by now. I was promised as much by the university during my career as an undergrad. I paid my dues. I shouldn't have been here. I should have been out on some crime beat, following the cops into Frayser, busting stories wide open.
They lied to me; I didn't have a good job, nor was I about to get a call on my fifty or so resumes circulating in nameless Human Resources departments. Still, I needed to work and I refused to mop floors at Krystal's or wait on some ungrateful son of a bitch whose best tip was to use a condom. Telemarketing, I had discovered after two weeks on the job, was a big step—below—anything I'd done before.
Why didn't I listen to my father and study mortuary science instead of journalism? You'll always have a steady income, he said, noting statistics on how many people die daily. Every one of them will need embalming, a nice casket, and a cemetery plot. I always offered up the counterpoint that news happens 24 hours a day, seven days a week. But he easily put that argument into the toilet, reminding me that the starting pay for a mortician was in the mid-twenties, at least in this state. Journalists were lucky to even find a job.
I found a job at Magic Carpet.
The phone rang on the other end, and an old woman answered.
"Mrs. Fran Lewis? Hi, ma'am, my name is Ben, and I'm calling to tell you about our exciting new special...” She interrupted my speech. “Ben, my name's Ben...” Again she had something to say. “From Magic Carpet, the Stain Specialists..."
I paused as she rattled on in quaking, old-lady tones. I didn't care what she had to say; I was working on commission. Flipping my script to the next page, I highlighted techniques on sticking it to old ladies who hid their life savings in their mattress.
I caught a few of the things she was saying, but still I was more interested in Cindy at the desk across from me, nipples poking through her shirt. The boss, Boss Hog we called him, kept it perversely chilly for just such a reaction. He tended to stop by when Cindy was on the phones, complain about the heat, and turn the air down to around 16 degrees. He was definitely a pig, but I had to admit I enjoyed the benefits of his deviant behavior.
"No, I don't know your grandson, ma'am.” I tried to turn the conversation back to carpet cleaning. “I have openings in your area all next week, would you like me to book you?” She gave me some more chin music until I finally had to hang up; I couldn't make any money on this call. “Maybe I'll call back some other time, thanks."
Just as I hung up, Boss Hog came out of his two-way mirrored office. I could tell by the look on his face that he had been monitoring my call. Momentarily, he paused at the thermostat, adjusted it down, and proceeded to my desk.
"What kind of call was that?” he snorted.
"A telephone call,” I replied sarcastically.
"I gave you the list of old people for a reason—so you could sell some freaking carpet cleaning.” His chest heaved, causing his fat to undulate like gelatin.
I'd been down this road with him before, and I'd only worked at Magic Carpet for less than a month. It didn't matter that I sold more than Cindy or the other two girls that worked for him. I guess I didn't have the nipples to secure my job.
"You're not gonna make your quota if you don't get on those phones and make some appointments.” He gave Cindy a smile, greedy eyes sucking up her curves, but turned back to me in an instant. “Get on the phone."
Reluctantly, I picked up the receiver and dialed the next number. I was surprised as the phone was answered on the second ring. Panting heavily, the person on the other end said hello.
"May I speak to Mrs. Celeste Olds?"
The man on the other end wheezed, “Um, she can't come to the phone right now."
"Sir, my name is Ben and I'm from Magic Carpet..."
"I don't need any, thanks,” he cut me off.
"Sir, just one moment of your time is all I ask."
He was grunting again, sounding confused. “Okay."
"I'm calling from Magic Carpet, the stain specialists. We have appointments in your area this week..."
Again he interrupted, “Stain specialists?” He exhaled into the phone, “You're carpet cleaners?"
"Only the best,” I read the line from the script.
"Can you get blood out of carpet?"
"Blood?” A nervous knot formed in my stomach. “Yes, blood stains, grass stains, grape juice..."
"Blood, you said you could get out blood.” He took several deep, cleansing breaths. “Can you get blood out of furniture and drapes, too? God, it's all over the place."
I was getting scared. Cindy must have noticed the expression on my face, for she put down the phone and listened.
"Sir, is everything okay?” I asked. “Would you like me to call the police or something?"
"No, it was an accident. Look, can I get you to come clean my carpet? I need you to come over right now."
"We can't come right now.” I prayed Boss Hog was monitoring my call. “Why don't you give me your name, and I'll pencil you in for tomorrow afternoon. What's your name?"
He wasn't listening to me at all. “Have you ever heard about that law about shooting intruders?"
"Um, yeah?” Cindy was gesturing to me, wondering what was going on.
"Do you think that counts for relatives or something?” He sighed, “Jesus, this blood is everywhere. Look, I'll pay you $2,000 cash if you come clean this up right now."
"Sir, is this a joke?"
"No joke, just a big, big accident.” He abruptly stopped talking as some type of activity began in the background. “Damn you!” he shouted as he dropped the phone.
I heard a woman scream just before the phone clicked dead.
"Holy Moses,” I whispered.
"What's wrong?” Cindy came over from her desk.
"I ... I ... think that guy just killed someone."
"That's bull.” She looked at my phone list. “He was playing a practical joke on you. People do that to telemarketers all the time. What number did you call, this one that's highlighted?"
"Yeah.” Cindy was beginning to make sense. “You think it's some sick guy playing a joke?"
"It has to be, let me call him.” Cindy picked up the phone.
"I'll go see if Boss Hog was taping the call."
Quickly, I walked past the row of desks and to his office. As I entered, he looked up at me with a reel of recording tape in his hand. Spools of loose tape cascaded to the floor, and he swore under his breath. I knew at that moment, he was too inept to have taped the call.
"What do you
want?” he snapped. “This tape just came off all over the place. I hate this machine."
Too rattled to come up with a quick intelligent answer, I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “You fat jerk, can't you do anything right?” The instant it came out of my mouth, I realized I'd put my foot in it.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I meant..."
"Get the hell out of here, you're fired!” He struggled with the tape.
"Fired?” I gasped. “For what?"
"For calling me a fat jerk, now take your stuff and leave."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make fun of your fat...” I stopped my mouth, but it was too late. He simply glared at me, and I knew I had worn out my welcome. “Just mail my check to me."
Carefully, I backed out of his office and shut the door. Cindy was back at her desk, dialing a new number. It was still delightfully chilly, and her desk was situated directly under the most powerful vent in the office.
"What happened when you called that guy?” I asked.
"Nothing, the phone was busy every time I tried. Did Boss Hog tape the call?"
"No, he just fired me that's all."
"Fired you?” Cindy was surprised. “What did he fire you for?"
"For calling him a fat jerk,” I replied. Pausing, I looked at her. She was actually a very nice girl, easy on the eyes. “You know, he turns the air conditioners on because he likes to see your nipples."
"I know,” she said and pulled a notebook out of her desk. “I write it all down. I already have a lawyer."
She was smart, too. I smiled, “You want to go out some time?"
"Sure,” she replied. “What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to call that guy back and tell him what I think of his joke.” I sat at my desk and picked up the receiver. I listened for a dial tone, but instead heard someone breathing on the other end. “Hello?” I asked.
"That's weird,” a voice on the other end said. “I've been trying to call you back, but your phone's been busy. I've got caller ID, and you didn't block out your number."
It was the man; my heart squeezed tightly.
"I need you to come clean this blood out of my carpet. I'll pay you $3,500 cash to do it, no questions."
I looked at Cindy, but she had her face buried in the phone script as she talked on the line. I don't know why, but I considered his offer. I'd just been fired, and I had rent and a car payment due. I heard every admissions counselor at UT-Martin telling me what a great job I'd get and how I wouldn't know what to do with the cash. Then, the voice of reason inside my head sounded off: are you stupid? Call the police. This guy probably just killed someone.
That's a lot of cash, though. I heard the college lies. Hmm. Under the table. No taxes.
"How did you get blood on the carpet?” I asked.
"Um, shaving.” He was breathing hard again. “Yeah, I was shaving."
"In your living room?"
"Look, $4,000 and that's my final offer."
I made up my mind. I wanted $4,000. I was willing to risk it. I'd take some precautions, of course; stop at home and grab my dad's Glock.
"Are you calling from 11223 Maple?"
"Yes,” he whispered. “When can you get here?"
"I know that area. Twenty minutes,” I said. “And no funny stuff, do you got it?"
"No funny stuff, I just want you to get this blood out."
Without saying good-bye, I hung up the phone. Cindy was still on her phone, busily scribbling down an appointment. Glancing up, she saw that I was packing up my things and motioned for me to call her later. I replied in similar mimic fashion that I would. I knew I wouldn't tell her about where I was going or what I was about to do. She'd want a cut. Cindy wasn't stupid.
My dad's house was on the way to 11223 Maple. Knowing he wasn't home, I slipped into his bedroom and took his pistol that he kept in the nightstand drawer. I felt its weight in my hand, giving gravity to my actions.
What was I thinking? I should just go into the living room, turn on the TV, and catch the hockey game.$4,000 , I heard another part of my head whisper. I had the cleaning equipment in my car. I had made a point of grabbing a portable machine that was stored in Magic Carpet's lobby.
There were six bullets in the gun; if the guy tried to pull anything, I'd be ready. I had an alibi and a story for the cops: I called him on the phone, he was killing someone, and I went to rescue her. It was airtight and worth a lot more than $4,000 to the tabloids if indeed it was a scene of carnage. Screw the University of Tennessee.
The reporter in me also urged me to go. I'd break the story wide open. There would be job offers from newspapers all across the country because I was an ace who took the bull by the horns. My head filled with all the benefits of what I was about to do. Screw ‘em twice.
As I got back into my car and headed for 11223 Maple, I remembered a book that I had started and put down. It was so unbelievable to me, even in the realm of fiction, that I couldn't read another word. It was a Dean Koontz novel;Intensity I think it was called.
Driving well over the speed limit, I remembered the implausibility of the plot: a girl was trapped in a motorhome full of murdered bodies; she escaped, but then steals a car and drives after the killer. Impossible, I thought while turning the corner onto Maple. She would never do it, no matter what the circumstances. She was home free from the killer. She would never go back on her own, putting her life in danger. But here I was in the same situation. Only, this time it was real. I was purposely going to a house where a man may be in the final throes of a killing spree. For what? $4,000.
The pistol was on the passenger seat. It glistened as I passed under the mercury streetlights. I slowed my car upon approaching the address and turned out my lights before pulling into the driveway. There I sat for several minutes, watching the front of the house. It was a tasteful ranch. Flowers dotted the walk and hung in baskets along the eaves. In the living room window, lit from behind heavy drapes, I saw a pacing silhouette.
A wave of rationality swept over me. I put my keys back into the ignition, but just as I was about to turn the engine over, a man peeked out from the curtains. Smiling, he waved at me. I didn't know if he could see me or not, but if I was going to chicken out this was the time.
The man stepped back from the curtains and walked to the front door. Turning on the outside light, he stepped out onto the concrete porch. Dressed in what appeared to be the clothes of a priest, he motioned for me to get out of the car.
"You the carpet guy?” he asked.
"Yeah, that's me.” Carefully, I hid the Glock in my pants before fetching the portable cleaning machine from the back seat.
He came down from the porch to meet me. “Can I give you a hand?"
Glancing back, I saw his face in the dim light of street lamps. It was marked with deep acne scars on his cheeks, his nose looked like it had been broken a few times, and there were red crispy splatters on his white neckband. He struck me as priggish, constantly straightening phantom wrinkles from his sleeves and brushing his clothes. I stood back, the machine in one hand and my other brushing against the pistol's handle beneath my shirt.
"$4,000 right?” I said.
"Yes,” Mr. Priggish said.
"Show me the stains.” My tone was all business. I didn't want him to sense my anxiety. “I have to tell you, I can't give you a warranty for this."
"I understand. Let me hold the door for you.” Then, he offered a strange compliment. “You have such a cleanly-shaven face."
"Thanks.” I gestured with my free hand, “You first."
Priggish went in and directly to a wide wash of blood. The cleaner nearly fell out of my hands as I lost the strength in them. Splashes of red were also on the chair, the curtain, and the wall directly behind Mr. Priggish.
"I don't think this little machine can get all of that out."
"But you promised."
I heard sirens down the street.
"Must be a fire or an
accident,” he said nervously.
Suddenly, he thrust his hand in his pocket. Fueled by adrenaline, I pulled the Glock and popped off a shot. Priggish screamed as the bullet hit his shoulder. He fell back into the entertainment center. In his hand, a wad of bills came unfurled. They fell onto the stained carpet.
The pistol was locked in my grip. I heard him cry out again. Blood was soaking his clothes and dripping down his arm.
"Oh, God.” I put the gun down on the table. “I'm so sorry, Mister. I thought you were gonna kill me."
SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque Page 1