by Adam Cesare
A few days without drinking and I feel like my tolerance has taken a hit, the room is bubbly.
My confidence is at an all time high, though, so I take out the latex solution I ordered online and begin to brush it onto the mold. I forget to plug up her nostrils and the goop is dripping down my hand as I apply it as evenly as I can across the mold.
When I’m sure there are not missed spots, I place the alginate mold on the desk and look to the boxes at my feet.
I haven’t broken the packaging on half of the crap I’ve ordered, so I do now. I lay out all the paints, gels and putties, most of which I have never used or have any idea how, then I open up a small canvas bag with all my new sculpting tools.
There’s one that looks like a surgeon’s scalpel and I take it out and test it against my finger. Even buzzed, I’m not a badass like Anna, so I stop well short of when it feels like I might break the skin.
I glance at the clock on the desktop, it’s only been three minutes and the latex isn’t ready yet. The layer that I’ve spilt on my hand is good and tacky, though, so I start carving that off.
When I’ve got a lip free with the knife I pull with my other hand and watch my own skin stretch away. My fingerprints are prominent, even in the crappy light of the basement.
Without checking the clock again, feeling that surely it must be done, I begin to peel Anna’s latex face out of the mold. It’s sticking though, because I’ve forgotten to dust the inside with baby powder. Rookie mistake.
The latex copy is not only stretched and disfigured, but I’ve torn the alginate too.
I sit back in the chair, a mixture of gin, vodka and Fireball bubbling up in my throat. I’ve got a ruined face in each hand as I fall asleep. B,oth of them don’t look as if they like me much.
TWENTY
Anna kicks the chair to wake me.
I jolt upright like I’m falling, dropping the mold to the floor where it bounces, Anna’s face folding inwards and then recoiling like Jell-O.
“Were you going to sleep through the convention?” she asks, inspecting the mess around me. Passing out last night, I thought it would be worse. There’s not nearly as much dried latex as I remember spilling, though the paintbrush is ruined, its bristles now one solid mass. It’s okay, I have more.
“Have you even packed?”
I forgot that we’re going to stay the night, it’ll be the first time that Chiller Theatre hasn’t been a day trip. Sharing a hotel room with Burt always seemed kinda intimate, so we never spent the extra cash.
I check the time on my phone, smearing it with dirty fingerprints. I’ve slept past work and it’s time to leave for the show. That’s one way to cut down on the pre-con anxiety I usually feel.
I toss a shirt and a pair of underwear into a backpack as Anna inspects her ruined faces.
“You’re going to get better at this, right?” she asks, holding up the alginate mold, pulling at the tears. “This kind of work isn’t going to make me a star.”
I don’t blame it on being drunk, though she must smell it on me, must know. She’s just fucking with me.
“Turn around, I’m going to change,” she says, her voice trying to start something.
“I’ll let you have your privacy,” I say, zipping up my bag. “I’ll meet you outside.”
I take the stairs two at a time, fleeing the basement before I can see whatever expression I’ve just caused, be it sadness, rage or something else.
In the car she has none of the steely cool, the pent up manic energy that that she exhibited in the twenty-four hours after Burt’s death.
I judge this as a good sign, let myself relax a little. Maybe nothing has happened to Mr. Ernst, maybe I’m just too nervous for my own good. Or maybe she’s just getting better at killing, doesn’t let it rattle her any more. Or maybe her being rattled was a show for me.
I try to push the thoughts away. I’m not a criminal psychologist, though, no matter how many documentaries about Ed Gein I’ve seen.
“Do you go to these things and get recognized?” she asks. “Do people know you?”
“Yeah, some. We used to buy vendor space to sell our movies, but we’ve stopped in the last few years, not worth it.”
“That’s so cool.” She says, her enthusiasm not really linking up with what I’ve just said. “Do you think I’ll get recognized?”
There’s her real question.
“The amount of coverage we’ve got, I’m sure you will.”
She smiles and uses one hand to readjust her tanktop. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her, pre- or post-murder. If we get pulled over for speeding, there’s not a cop in the world that would give her a ticket, her looking as hot as she does.
“You’ve never been to one of these things, though. So you should prepare yourself for disappointment, it may not be like you think it is. The people can get weird.”
She doesn’t seem to hear this, though, then leans over and turns up the radio to drown out the truth, before I speak again.
We make it to the hotel in record time, Anna driving in-character, with Cat Killer’s speed and recklessness.
TWENTY-ONE
We drop off our bags in the room and Anna is recognized three times before we get down to the show floor. All three of the guys asks to take a picture with her, each of them asks me if I can hold the camera.
Anna tells them thanks, stuffs a flier into each of their sweaty hands. She doesn’t mind being pawed by these guys, guys that are way bigger creatures than me.
We get down to the dealers room, where it smells like a farm and the aisles are so packed that it’s difficult to turn around, and she’s stormed. Neckbeards and foodstains and utilikilts, Anna never flinches, she takes all comers, wrapping both arms around them and pressing her cheek close for a photo.
Maybe one in ten of them knows who I am and acknowledges me.
I wander away from the minor scene she’s causing, am contented by the fact that she’s still handing out fliers, reminding everyone that she talks to that if they haven’t pledged they really should and if they have they should look at some of our deluxe pledge tiers. We’ll probably double our money in one day.
The dealer room has only gotten more impressive in the years I’ve been coming to this thing, but even though it has swollen, it’s lost some of its luster for me. I used to be so excited to browse the bootleg discs, all out of print stuff or VHS dupes that you couldn’t find anywhere. But now most of it can be searched up on Youtube, consumed in ten minute chunks.
I look down at a spread of knives and swords. The dealer recognizes me and comes over. “Hey, how’ve you been?” he says. I’m just a face to him, a mark, he doesn’t know my name. He’s wearing sunglasses inside, has his head shaved bald. It’s 2013 and he’s still rocking the look that Joe Pantoliano wore in The Matrix. I never realized how sad that was until right now.
“I’m okay. I’m here with my movie, we’ve raised over ten grand in our first week.”
“Wow that’s great, I remember you coming here forever. See anything you like?”
I don’t want any knives.
“Hey, don’t leave me alone like that. I was getting swamped,” Anna says as she pokes me in the ribs, scares me.
“You don’t like it?”
“Oh it’s great. Most of them are great.”
“Most?” I say, picking up an item from the table, one of the boomerangs from the movie Blade. I don’t feel like dealing with Anna, so I wonder what Wesley Snipes is up to, whether he’s sunken low enough to start working on low budget Kickstarter features.
“Yeah, there’s this one guy that keeps hanging around, staring at my ass.” That doesn’t narrow it down, most of this aisle is staring at her ass, the knife dealer is staring at her ass, even the girls are staring. Her ass is apparent, it commands attention, especially since we can see most of it.
“Which one?” I ask, looking around, not much caring.
“The fat one,” she says. Again, really slimming d
own the candidates. “The one with the Freddy glove.”
I see him now, he’s looking but trying to look like he’s not. The way his eyes are going crazy in their sockets I suspect that there’s something wrong with him, like more than there is wrong with all the other people that have paid fifty dollars to have c-list celebrities charge them for autographs. There are a good amount of special folks who frequent these conventions, from crippling social anxiety to autism to full blown shrapnel damage. I used to get a kick out of seeing how the celebrities would interact with these people. If they were dicks, things could get sad.
“He’s a feeb, don’t let him bother you,” I say, then turn my attention to the guy. “She doesn’t like you staring at her, go away before I kick your ass.” The guy scatters, a few rubberneckers look at me, some of them laugh.
“Excuse me, can you take a picture?” a guy says and presses his phone into my hands, grabbing onto Anna by the shoulder, she’s not having it and neither am I.
“Ask first, asshole.” I say. I’m a quiet guy, don’t usually talk like that to strangers, even when they do deserve it.
“I just wanted a picture,” he plucks his phone back from me, “no reason to be a dick.”
Anna has regained her sexed-up composure and is still trying to hand him a flier as he walks away.
She turns back to me, “I need to go up to the room and take a break.”
There’s a pause, I say okay, that I’m going to keep looking down here, that I’ll see her when she’s back. This really pisses her off and for the first time since we’ve arrived I’m happy. She starts walking away, cutting through the crowd and I watch as the Freddy glove guy peels off, starts following her.
I’m not going to babysit her, but I do send her a text, it’s the responsible thing:
“Be safe. Don’t let your secret admirer follow you up to the room.”
A few minutes later, sifting through some old Aurora model kits, I get a text that reads “I can handle myself.”
TWENTY-TWO
I’m not where I say I’m going to be. After looking through the dealer room, too empty to buy anything, I head for the hotel bar, the best part of the convention.
The beers are seven bucks apiece, but it’s worth it for the atmosphere. I’ve seen some crazy shit at this bar, seen character actors recite lines of dialogue from movies that are twenty years old, and weren’t even popular then, seen models flash their tits so the bartender would buy them shots. It’s a nice place to be, but even three glasses of Dewar’s in I’m not having fun.
“Where r u?” Anna texts.
“Bar”
It’s packed, but I’ve been here long enough that I have a seat and I’m not going to stand up and let someone else take it from me. I wave Anna down as she walks in. She stands behind me.
The day has taken its toll on her makeup. Her forehead is sweaty and she’s no longer carrying a handful of fliers. It’s possible, at the rate she was going, that they’re all gone already. She pushes my backpack into my lap, causing me to spill my drink.
“We’re leaving.”
It’s the only thing she can say that can get a rise out of me.
“What! Why?” People are looking at us. Fuck ’em, let them look.
“Come on, we’re through,” she says, pulling at my arm.
“No, no. I know it’s weird but the bar’s the best part,” I say. I’m drunk, don’t want to go anywhere. “You’re just tired. Here, take my seat.”
I stand and put my hand on her waist, she is sweaty, moist. She doesn’t move as I try to guide her down to the bar stool.
She lowers her voice, it’s a very specific tone that I’ve only heard once before.
Don’t you dare cut that camera.
“You’re not understanding me. We need to leave now.”
My hands are still wet, I look down at them. They’re pink. Her whole tanktop has been soaked and wrung out, I can see the sharp creases where it folded against itself, trying to squeeze out the water. And the blood.
“What did you do,” I shout, no longer aware that we’re in a crowded bar. I’ve never hit a woman. I’ve never hit a man, either, just schoolyard push-fights when I was a kid. I shove her now, both hands flat on her shoulder, one low enough that I touch tit.
It’s a push violent enough to send some of the guys out of their seats. I raise both hands above my head, surrendering before anything even starts. I hope no one can see that my hands are tinged pink.
The push causes something to break in Anna’s eyes, is some kind of last straw.
“I’ll be in the car,” she says.
“The retarded guy?” I ask, feeling like I know the answer even though I’ve got no proof. It could have been anyone, really. I’ve heard stories of guys trying stuff at conventions, especially with girls in costume, but I also know that Anna is the wrong target.
She doesn’t answer me, just drives. She’s crying.
I cried plenty, after Burt, but I’ve never seen a single tear from her, didn’t know it was possible until now.
“It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
End? The word sobers me, literally and figuratively. We’ve been getting away with murder so well that I forgot that isn’t the norm.
“It’s not the end. Don’t talk like that. We can go back, clean up whatever you did.”
The car accelerates, it’s not like when we were driving out here, not Cat Killer at the wheel, but a distraught Anna Friedman.
“Think about it,” I say, talking fast, matching the car. “What better place to try and hide something like that, we can walk him right out to the car. No one will bat an eye.”
“Now you have ideas?” She says. “Now you think, now you plan? Am I a star yet?”
I don’t know what to say, I burp and vomit coats the back of my throat. It tastes like cheap scotch.
We’re doomed. She’s doomed us.
We’re on Sunrise Highway now, back on Long Island but still a long way from home. It’s a Friday night, there are enough cars on the road that Anna has to weave, thread through them.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice pathetic. “What are we going to do?”
The lights on the highway are orange, not replaced to the bright white fluorescents you see elsewhere. The amber gives the pavement a sickly hue. They’re passing us fast, too fast.
I check my seatbelt, then hug my backpack to my chest, even though it’s not attached to anything, the weight makes me feel safe.
“You’re not doing anything. I’m doing everything.” She says, jerks the wheel. I know we’re off the ground, weightless for a moment, but after that I can’t see or feel anything. Or maybe I just can’t remember.
TWENTY-THREE
I keep thinking that I’m going to recognize one of the cops that stream in and out of the room. That I’ll see one who was at my house that time that my mother called them. I don’t, though. That would be too over the top, even for a movie like this.
My wrist aches, but so does the rest of me.
Speaking of over the top, the handcuffs are a bit much, it’s not like I’m going to wake up, broken leg and codeine-filled and stage a daring escape, maybe take out a guard or two.
They tell me that I may even get charged for her, too, sent through the window like a bullet. As drunk as I was when they find us, how agitated I was at the bar, how everyone saw me push her: that’s manslaughter, right? They ask me, like I’m the expert.
They know that that first one was her. Well at least they think that Burt was the first one. No denying that one was her, they have the video, of course. But they also think that I forced her to do it somehow, either through direct or indirect coercion. The rest of them? The old man, the retard, her own mother. Those they’re not so sure, there’s fingerprints that link me to one of them, to the Bowie knife, they don’t tell me which. I think of the latex, Anna waking me up in the basement, and I can figure out which.
The Kickstarter is cancelled, so I can�
��t use the money to get a lawyer any better than the public defender. The page is down, but I bet video-captured versions of Burt’s death are still being handed around on the internet, now that it’s infamous, probably by sickos with screennames that I recognize.
My lawyer may as well not be in the room as they talk to me. They don’t need me to corroborate any facts, they’re just telling me what they think. There are falsehoods, of course, but I’m more shocked by the things that they guess right.
In their story, I’ve killed them all, in one way or another. They’ve even been able to dig up my mom’s 911 call from all those years ago. There’s a computer for those things.
As soon as I’m ready to sit in the box, on trial, they’ll peg me for all of it.
And why not?
They’re not getting her side of the story and you can’t trust mine.
Look at me. The stuff I buy, the shit I’ve made. I’m the first one you expect.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Adam Cesare is a New Yorker who lives in Philadelphia. He studied English and film at Boston University.
His books include Video Night, The Summer Job and Tribesmen. His nonfiction has appeared in Paracinema, Fangoria,The LA Review of Books and other venues.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wrote this soon after moving to Philadelphia (although it was the second book I completed here), so a shout-out must be given to the people who showed me all the cool places to hang out in the city: Scott Cole and Matt Garrett. And, of course, to Jennifer, for introducing me to my new home.
As usual, big thanks to anyone who has read and liked my stuff well enough to write a review or tell a friend about it. It helps immeasurably. An equally large thank you to the reviewers/bloggers who have supported and discussed my work, most especially Gabino Iglesias and Sean Leonard (who I didn’t remember to thank in the last one of these).