Any other time, he would have vigorously shoveled food into his mouth with both hands and gladly felt guilty about it for a day or two afterward. Now? He wasn’t sure he could hold anything down, even simple broth.
Nervous energy did that to a person.
He perused the buffet tables, his brain drooling over the sheer amount of food but losing the battle against his churning stomach, which was dancing itself into knots. In the end, he settled on a bowl of chicken soup and some toast and jelly, as if he were recovering from a nasty stomach virus and not suffering a violent bout of nerves. He was the first back to the table and looked on with no little envy and awe when all three of his associates, even the slender Chelsea, returned with plates piled high with the most delicious-looking foods.
Jake looked at Michael's plate. “On a diet?” he asked, spearing a fried something or other from his plate and shoving it in his mouth.
Michael shook his head. “I'm still a little full from lunch.” He sipped his soup and took a bite of the toast as everyone else ate.
“So how's the wife, Mike?” Jerry asked as he lifted his fork to his mouth.
Michael felt that knot tighten and turn and sour in his stomach.
“Fine,” he said. He sighed. He couldn’t help himself. “She's not bedridden, she's not in a wheel chair. She can still move. She's... functional.” He felt a small tear spring to an eye.
“What's wrong with your wife,” Chelsea asked.
“She has MS,” Michael said.
Chelsea said nothing, her eyes blank; either she didn't know what MS was or didn't know what to say in response. So instead of embarrassing herself by saying something stupid, she quietly turned back to Jake and continued to eat. They said nothing, but Michael bet they were probably playing footsies under the table the way they smiled at each other.
They ate in relative silence for fifteen minutes or so, at which point Jake and Chelsea left to go hunt down dessert.
Although they had been in town for almost two days, this was the first opportunity Michael and Jerry had to talk. During lunch they talked to clients, and last night, after the convention ended for the day, Jerry had run off to have dinner with an old college buddy at the Wynn.
“It's tough,” Michael admitted when they were alone. “Vanessa’s got primary progressive MS. She's only fifty-five and will probably live quite a long time, but the disease... it's sapped the life out of her. She can still drive. She can still go to the gym a bit. She can still get around the house, but... She tries so hard to function like nothing is wrong, like nothing’s changed, like she’s the same person she always was. Especially with friends and co-workers. She refuses to let them see how weak she is. But it’s eating her away on the inside, and it’s exhausting her, both mentally and physically.”
Jerry nodded. “I watched it take my mother slowly. It tires you out, man.”
“This may seem a little shallow, but you know, I think it would be a little more bearable if...” He allowed his voice to trail off, knowing that Jerry would understand his hesitation.
The bald man's eyes were blank for a moment, but then brightened with understanding. “Yeah. I know, I know.”
“I think she's able to physically, but the interest, it just isn’t there. And you can't force or guilt a sick woman to do something like that. It’s barbaric.”
“It's tough. Life without sex is...” He let his own words drift off.
And that was the crux of it all. Michael loved his wife. Nothing could change that. She still amused him, still challenged him, still kept him on his toes. But the sex... it had all but disappeared, and he knew full well that the lack of sex in his life was having a deleterious effect on both his mind and body. It caused anger and resentment and no little frustration, which in turn oftentimes caused him to suffer increased blood pressure and other physical ailments that weren’t good for him. Not having sex was just not natural. Man was an animal, fueled by primitive needs and desires, and having a healthy sex life was an important component to most men’s happiness.
How much sex would have been enough for him, Michael sometimes wondered. Once every other month? Four times a year? Was that enough? Would it sate him? Make him happy? If it was with Vanessa, he imagined it would be. She was his soul mate. But it had been over a year since his last conjugal encounter. And before that, it had been eight months. Who knew how long it would be before the next time, if ever. He felt starved, and that starvation had awakened a hunger in him, one he didn’t want to feed but one he believed he needed to feed for the sake of his own sanity.
“Did you ever talk to her about this,” Jerry asked. “I know it may be an uncomfortable conversation, but it’s probably one you should have.”
Michael nodded. “Once. Three or four months ago. She told me that she just needed time. More time. But she’s not getting better, she’s getting a bit weaker every day, and if she has no interest now, she won’t be getting it in the future. I love Vanessa, Jer. She’s my world. But if she can’t give me what I need, if she won’t give me what I need… Is it wrong for me to be selfish? Is it wrong for me to have these needs and desires?”
Jerry looked at him with narrowed eyes, and Michael swore that the man was reading the darkest depths of his soul. But if he guessed at Michael’s intentions, if he had passed judgment on his old friend, he kept his thoughts to himself. “Not at all, Mike,” he said slowly. “Life’s complicated. And sometimes doing what’s right and doing what needs to be done are not the same thing.”
“But there are consequences,” Michael said.
“Every action has consequences,” Jerry said sagely. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Every decision we make causes ripples, for better or worse.”
“Never took you for a philosopher, Jerry,” Michael said, cracking a smile.
“No one ever asked me my opinion on such matters before.”
“So what do I do?”
“You have to do what’s best for you. “
Jake and Chelsea silently materialized next to the table, each of them carrying a bowl laden with ice cream and covered with various toppings. Michael looked at Chelsea, wondered where all of that went on her slight frame. As she sat down, she dipped her face toward the bowl, trying to catch a swirl of whipped cream on her tongue. She succeeded, but managed to get a dollop on her nose, too. She laughed as she licked it away, the sound causing Michael to remember the days of his own youth. He just wanted to crack. He turned away, looked back at Jerry, whose own nose was covered with barbecue sauce from a rib he was devouring. The look didn’t cause the same pang of desire as seeing whipped cream on the girl’s nose, but it did bring a smile to his lips.
Michael slowly sipped his soup, and as everyone finished their meals, they began to discuss business. They examined what had worked in terms of getting people to buy their products that day and the previous day. What the reasons were that some of the convention goers didn’t want to buy at the moment. What they could do to push their system more during the final day. The discussion lasted only fifteen minutes but proved surprisingly productive. Jake was a wealth of good ideas and useful insights. Despite his predatory personality, he actually knew what he was doing. It wasn’t all charisma and smoke and mirrors. He was a sharp kid who seemed to understand human nature better than Michael ever would. Yeah, he had a promising future at CoreGen.
Dinner ended at seven thirty. Michael and Jerry shook hands and went their separate ways while Chelsea and Jake disappeared together. Michael had two and half hours until his rendezvous. He considered returning to his room but he didn’t want to be by himself. Didn’t want to be left alone with his own conflicting thoughts. Part of what he loved about these trips was that he was never truly alone, regardless of where business took him. And Vegas, it offered more stimuli than anywhere else. Its one advantage, in his mind. He could be happy just drifting between rows of slot machines, watching and listening to the sound of machines beeping and happy gamblers laugh
ing and talking.
He spent his free time after dinner on the casino floor, wandering around and people-watching. He stood by a craps table and watched as dice were thrown and people shouted and hugged in communal excitement. He sat at a ten-dollar blackjack table between a kid in his mid-twenties with enough piercings in his face to set off a metal detector and a middle-aged Chinese woman with a heavy accent and a peculiar odor clinging to her. He played an entire shoe, about two dozen hands, winning fifty bucks for his time and trouble. He stopped at several slot machines afterwards, pumping quarters in and yanking back that arm, all the while keeping an eye on his watch. He lost his fifty bucks very quickly to those sly one-armed bandits.
At five to ten, he made his way over to the bustling lobby, sliding the Yankees hat he had brought with him onto his head as he went. He took a seat on one of the plush leather loveseats and waited, his stomach doing twists and turns and other objectionable things within him. He wanted to throw up. His eyes wandered, wondering which of the dozens of females wandering around was his. Each time his eyes fell on one of the beautiful women dressed in seductive eveningwear, he had to fight the urge to get up and run up to the safety of his room where he could watch pornography and take care of his own needs without the guilt. But in the end, he waited. Watched and waited, feeling awful about it the whole time.
At ten-fifteen, she entered the casino. He had no idea what she would look like or what she would be wearing, but the way she looked at him across the lobby, the way her smile lit up her face when her eyes fell on him, he knew that she was here for him. He was somewhat surprised, and disappointed, at how modestly she was dressed. Instead of a provocative slinky black number that revealed a good amount of skin, she wore tight jeans, a white tank top and a black button-down shirt that hung open. It was an outfit that framed her large chest nicely. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and she wore a blue Yankees hat similar to his on her head. But as he watched the tall, lithe women stroll casually over to him, he understood why she wasn’t dressed as he expected: there was no reason for her to wear something scandalous, something that could bring unwanted attention, when she wasn’t actively looking for work. After all, she already had her boy lined up.
Without a word, she sat next to him on the couch. Rested a hand on his right knee.
Michael’s stomach was suddenly revolting worse than it ever had before. Worse than when he had suffered from a stomach virus two years ago and spent a good part of three days in the bathroom in front of and on top of the toilet. He suddenly wanted to get up and run. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to tear her clothes off right there. He wanted to cry. He wanted everything. He wanted nothing.
“Looks like you can use a friend, Brian,” she said, her voice husky but playful.
Michael shook his head. “I have plenty of those.” He looked at his lap, at her hand, at anything but her beautiful face. What I need is a psychiatrist, he thought. And some pills to make my needs just go away. Chemical castration.
A smooth hand took his chin and lifted his head.
He looked into the girl's eyes, took in every exquisite detail of her perfect face. God, she was beautiful. She began to chew on her bottom lip in a way that simply made him melt.
“It's okay,” she said in the most natural way, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking because she had been in this exact same situation many, many times before.
For a moment, simply because she had said so, Michael allowed himself to believe her. It is okay. It’s natural. It’s only human. Sometimes doing what's necessary isn't always the same as doing what's right. And this is necessary. And that makes it okay, even if it’s not right. I love my wife. I'm doing this for my wife. I’m doing it for us. Because I don’t want to resent her forever.
The girl let go of his chin, took his hand in hers, and stood up, her body unfolding gracefully from the couch. “Let’s go discuss this somewhere else,” she said, offering an impish grin. “I know just what you need.”
Those words were like a cold splash of water across the face, and all Michael could think about at that moment was Leland Gaunt, the villain from Stephen King’s Needful Things who manipulated the townsfolk into committing mischievous and evil acts with the promise of giving them what they wanted most in return.
It didn’t turn out well for any of them in the end.
But the moment of shock quickly passed. He stood as ordered and dutifully followed the girl through the throngs of people to the banks of elevators next to the casino floor.
Sometimes doing what was right and what was necessary were not the same thing, he reminded himself as he walked. But for some reason, Jerry’s wisdom didn’t make him feel any better.
Chapter 6
Over the past four years, Glenn had developed a working relationship with Gary Snyder, owner of Gary’s Pawn Shop. When he started this storage locker endeavor, he knew he needed to have at least one local contact he trusted to sell some of the more expensive items he simply didn’t want to deal with or hold on to for long, like jewelry. He had met Gary several months into his hobby at an auction outside of Vegas, and they had become fast friends. They both liked the Oakland Raiders. They both played guitar. They both hated Kenny G. They both loved Japanese food and hated Indian food. And they were both decent, honest guys with East Coast roots. Glenn knew that he could trust the Brooklyn transplant to deal honestly with him, and he oftentimes brought small items he found at auctions in California to Vegas with him to sell to Gary. And of course, when he bought a unit in Vegas itself, he visited Gary the next day if he had anything of value to get rid of.
Today, he had one item to sell: The gold necklace with the teardrop diamond dangling from the end. This was the exact type of thing he used Gary for. He could try to sell it himself, after doing hours of research to find out what it was worth, but he simply didn’t have the time or interest. It was beautiful, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t have anyone in his life to give it to. He didn’t want to have to insure it. And he could use the money.
This… this gorgeous thing was way out of his league. Let the expert deal with it.
Gary would be able to sell it more quickly, and for more money, than he could ever hope to.
When he left the storage unit, the only thing he took with him was the necklace. The rest would wait until he was ready to leave. Bob had given him forty-eight hours, after all. He was in no rush. The stuff would be safer here than in his truck.
He glanced at his watch as he stepped out into the twilight. It was already close to seven. Too late to visit Gary tonight. The guy on duty at this time of night wasn’t authorized to buy things like this. That meant that he would need to keep the necklace, which was stuffed into his right pocket, for another fifteen hours or so. And that made him nervous. He was the paranoid type, and he liked to get rid of the expensive stuff as soon as possible. When he carried around something worth this much, he always worried that there was a target painted on his back. But there was nothing else to be done. True, he could have left the necklace in the storage locker, but that prospect made him even more nervous. He didn’t want it on his person, but at the same time, he felt that there was no safer place for it. So he held on to it but kept alert.
Glenn slid into the driver’s seat of his truck and drove toward the Luxor. A man needed to eat, and he couldn’t think of a better place to have his final dinner in Vegas. He was a fiend for buffets, and after dining at a dozen of Vegas’s finest, he had decided that the Luxor offered the best buffet, and whenever he was in town, he made sure to stop there at least once. Sure, it was in the other direction from the motel where he was staying, but the detour was worth it.
He gorged himself that night, eating alone and sampling from all of his favorite foods, ignoring the fat content as he shoveled in mini-burritos, slices of pepperoni pizza, fried chicken wings, and mozzarella sticks. He was just feeling too good and wanted to celebrate. When he was close to bursting, tired and content, he stood to lea
ve. But as he made his way toward the exit, a small voice began to whisper inside his head. Not a voice, actually, but a small tickling in the back of his mind. A compulsion.
He looked at the dessert bar as he walked past, a magnificent layout of pastries and ice cream, an altar to sugar and decadence. Though he had every intention of pushing past and leaving, he found himself drifting toward the soft serve ice cream machine. He grabbed a bowl from the table, sliced a banana in half, and proceeded to create a massive banana split, piling it high with toppings like he was ten again: sprinkles and wet walnuts and hot fudge and whipped cream and half a dozen maraschino cherries. He brought the monstrosity back to his table and began to gorge again, feeling an uncomfortable sensation as the food slithered down his throat. He didn’t know why he was eating—he wasn’t hungry—but he ate nonetheless, as if in a trance, as if this was to be his last meal, enjoying and hating the taste and sensations in equal measures. Even when he wanted to stop, something urged him on, some uncomfortable need to eat and eat and eat. Like his life depended on it. It was only when he heard a laugh inside his head, a sound like a little girl’s giggle, that the pressure on his mind, the drive to eat, abated.
He dropped his spoon and began to breathe heavily. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, removing gobs of fudge and ice cream. His stomach throbbed uncomfortably, almost painfully, and the sudden need to vomit rose in him. He felt everything he had eaten in the past half hour begin to climb and climb and climb back up his esophagus until he could taste it on the back of his throat and creeping onto his tongue. He rushed to the bathroom, burst into a stall, fell to his knees and threw up, feeling hot, caustic bile burn its way back up his throat in a vile wave. The sounds he made were awful, horrid noises, and for a moment Glenn wondered if he would die unceremoniously on the floor of a casino bathroom.
Abomination Page 13