by phuc
“Your pit bull must think he's another breed or something."
“What do you mean?"
“He's not leaping at the door trying to kill me.” She laughed, bending down to be eye level with the dog, who started licking the glass door where her face was. She laughed again. “I'm afraid that if you open this door he's gonna slobber all over me."
“You're correct about that,” Daryl said, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. “Petey is actually a typical American Pit Bull Terrier because he's been raised and trained properly. Pit Bulls are really loyal, dependable, loving animals. Unfortunately their loyalty has been destroyed by people who have exploited their physical strength and endurance, which is why they've been bred as fighting dogs. They are so loyal to their owners that they'll fight to the death, all to please their masters.” He sat down on the couch and motioned for Rachael to have a seat. Petey stopped wiggling and lay down on the patio, looking inside the house smiling a doggy smile. “If I hadn't rescued Petey when I had, he would have been brought up aggressively, and even if he had been rescued at some point and later adopted out to a family, that tendency would have remained with him. That's why so many of these dogs wind up mauling children; they've been hardwired through breeding and training to attack and kill other animals, and a small child appears as another animal to these dogs. If you encourage that part of their psyche during training, or if you don't work at keeping that part of it down, you wind up with a potentially dangerous animal.” Daryl sipped his coffee and looked out the sliding glass door at Petey, who cocked his head at him questionably. “The kids next door love playing with Petey.
He loves playing with them as well."
“I'm sure they're supervised when Petey is playing with them, though,” Rachael surmised.
Daryl laughed. “Of course. That's where being a responsible dog owner comes in.
I keep Petey in the backyard during the day, and I play with him everyday after work, or we'll go for walks. He gets plenty of exercise and physical interaction with me. Pit Bulls need that kind of activity or they quickly grow bored, and with boredom comes aggression. A pit bull chained up in the backyard all day with nothing to amuse itself with becomes a very dangerous animal."
“Is it true about their jaw power?” Rachael asked, looking out at the backyard at Petey. “That they can really crush bones?"
Daryl nodded. “They're noted for the incredible strength of their biting power.
Once they grab on, nothing can make them let go. They also have an extremely high tolerance for pain. An officer I know had to pry one off of a guy in the Wilmington area and he actually shot it twice at point blank range with a shotgun before it let go of the guy's arm. The poor guys arm was so badly mangled it had to be amputated."
“Jesus!"
“Now that you know that, you'll probably have a heart attack when you see Petey grab my hand in his mouth and pull me outside when it's play time."
They spent the next hour and a half sitting on his sofa sipping coffee and talking more, mainly about the books that were crammed in his bookshelves. Rachael had noticed them while Daryl made the coffee: books on the civil war, various aspects of world and American history, archeology, genealogy, sociology and psychology. There were a few books on crime and serial murder which were resting on the coffee table that she assumed were brand new—probably bought as a result of the case he was currently working on.
There were also several books on street gangs on his bookshelf.
But the book they spent the evening talking about was Graham Hancock's Fingerprints of the Gods, a hefty volume that Rachael at first mistook for a book on ancient mythology. As she picked it up and began leafing through it, she saw that it was actually about lost civilizations. Daryl noticed the volume, and the topic of conversation centered on the book. The subject of the book sounded fascinating: using data from archeology, astronomy, and the lore of ancient writings and religions, the author hypothesized that prior to modern civilization, there was a previous, more advanced civilization that was wiped out by a catastrophic natural disaster, and that our present civilization was headed toward another one very soon. It was a fascinating subject, and Rachael found herself lost in it as she leafed through the book as Daryl pointed out various aspects of the theory to her.
And it was a mighty long discussion, too; by the time Rachael thought to check her watch it was closing in on midnight. “Well, I've really had a wonderful time, Daryl."
“So have I,” Daryl said.
“We need to do this again."
“Absolutely."
Rachael felt awkwardness coming, and rose from the sofa. She picked up her cup and Daryl rose to his feet, following suit. She put the cup on the cupboard by the sink, smiled at Daryl as she walked past him to the living room. “Mind if I use your bathroom?"
“Go right ahead,” Daryl said, beginning the task of rinsing the cups in the sink.
“Just down the hall and around the corner."
Rachael peed, then washed her hands. She felt a trifle nervous and with good reason. She really liked Daryl, and the nervousness she was feeling was that good old fashioned one she got when she was a young school girl; that feeling of being tongue-tied around whomever she had a crush on. She felt that way with Daryl and she did enjoy the feeling.
She forgot to bring her purse in the bathroom, so she grabbed a tube of toothpaste resting on the sink. She squeezed a dollop of it out on her index finger and rubbed it in her mouth, rubbing it in her teeth to freshen her breath. She replaced the toothpaste where she found it, rinsed her mouth out, then dried her hands on the towel. Then she inspected herself in the mirror one last time—she looked fine. Nervous, but fine.
When she came out of the bathroom Daryl was starting the dishwasher. Rachael picked her purse up off the couch and smiled. “Well, I don't mean to be so forward, but would you like to go out again sometime?"
“You bet I would,” Daryl grinned.
“Great!” She slung her purse over her right shoulder and together they walked to the front door. “You're in the office all next week?"
“I am so far,” Daryl said. She could detect a hint of nervousness in him as well.
“I'll give you a call."
“I can call you,” Daryl said.
She stopped at the door and turned to him. He stood there, looking rather cute, like a little boy expecting a piece of candy. She smiled at him. “I'd like that."
Daryl smiled back, and she went to him and lightly kissed his mouth. He returned the kiss, and she put her arms on his chest and kissed him again. This time he met her kiss with an equal level of passion and they moved with the kiss, his arms around her waist, her body pressed lightly into his. His mouth tasted like coffee, and she nibbled at his lips with light, playful kisses. She nuzzled his neck and hugged him. He felt strong and warm.
“I'm really glad we went out,” she said.
“Me too,” he murmured.
She felt a sense of warmth rush through her, a tingling along her arms and legs.
She drew back and looked at him . “I'll talk to you during the week?"
“You'll talk to me during the week,” he said, a dog-eared grin on his face.
“'Kay.” She smiled and they kissed again, once, but just as passionately. Then she was saying goodbye, he was opening the door for her, and she was heading outside.
She was almost halfway down the walkway to the driveway when he called out after her. “Wait a minute! How dumb of me."
She stopped. “What?"
He emerged a moment later and closed the door to his house, a sheepish grin on his face. “Let me walk you to your car."
She smiled. She hadn't even thought that he would offer to walk her to her car—
both of them had been so wrapped up in their passion for each other that such things like romantic trivialities almost went forgotten.
He walked her to her car, which was parked at the curb. The street was relatively quiet as t
hey walked to the driver's side door of her car, a black Camaro. She unlocked it, opened the door, and threw her purse on the passenger seat. Then she turned to Daryl again. “Well, goodbye again,” she smiled.
“Goodbye,” he said.
They hugged again and kissed, and this time it felt as if this was the most significant kiss in her life. This moment was the singular, most important one of her life.
It was grand. Exquisite.
“I'll talk to you next week,” she said.
“Okay. You drive carefully,” he said.
She got into the driver's seat and he closed the door for her.
She started the car, let it warm up, and looked up to see Daryl standing on the sidewalk watching her with a boyish smile on his face. Rachael waved at him. Daryl waved back. Then she put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. Feeling more content than she had in a long time.
That feeling of contentment followed her and stayed with her throughout the weekend.
Chapter 9
When he finally got home from work he knew he would find his mother in the living room parked on the sofa watching Entertainment Tonight or Hard Copy as she did every night. He bundled the package inside his blue ski jacket and zipped it up before he entered the house. It was one thing to try sneaking in something legitimate into the house when his mother was in the living room, but to try bringing in what Charley had bundled into his jacket would only serve to set mother off. The trick was to enter the house, close the door quickly, bid mother a quick hello-how-are-you while heading toward the hallway. It was a routine they went through at least a once a week.
Charley entered the house just as he did nearly ten thousand other times in his life.
Mother was seated on the living room sofa, the TV tuned to the Channel 2 News. She looked up at him as he closed the door behind him. “Hello, Charley,” she said. “How was your day today?"
“Fine, mother,” Charley said, already heading toward the hall that led toward his bedroom. “How was yours?"
“Humph!” She sniffed, drawing into her robe. Her gray hair was tied in a bun, long wisps sticking out of her head as if it was unbrushed. “Same as always. That damned When Fan Fong, or whatever the hell that gook's name is that lives next door, is up to his old tricks again."
“Really?” Charley had reached the entrance to the hallway and stood there to engage in this bit of conversation with his mother. That way she wouldn't feel he was brushing her off totally. “How so?” Nyguen Phan Houng was a Vietnamese immigrant who had been living in the neighborhood for over twenty years. He was retired and his favorite hobby was repairing electronic equipment; everything from stereos, to transistor radios. “Up to his old tricks again” probably meant he was working on an old radio and mother couldn't stand the sound of the static coming out of it as Nyguen fiddled with it.
“He's screwing around with those radios again,” mother complained. “Making an awful racket. Damn near kept me awake from my afternoon nap."
“Well, I'm sure he won't do it anymore."
“I've heard that before,” she huffed.
Now it was time to beat a hasty retreat. “Well, I'm going to go to my room and change. Is there anything you need before I turn in for the day?"
Mother appeared to think it over, then waved a hand at him. She picked up the remote control of the TV and began flipping through the channels. “No. Go do whatever the hell it is you do in there. I don't even want to know anymore.” She turned to the TV, her attention fixed glassy-eyed on it. Charley was dismissed.
Charley turned and headed toward the room at the end of the hallway. He opened the door with a key and went in, closing it softly behind him. He was hot beneath the ski jacket and his blood pounded in his veins. Go do whatever the hell it is you do in there. I don't even want to know anymore. Like you always wanted to know what I was doing every goddamned day of my life. Like you know that statement is bullshit because whenever I do try to live my life as an adult, you give me the third degree. You've always disapproved of everything I did anyway. What makes you think you'll stop now?
He unzipped his jacket and set the package from the liquor store down on the end table by the couch. His living quarters were fairly large, resembling a small apartment consisting of the back three rooms of the small house he shared with his mother. His living space was essentially two bedrooms that connected with a common bathroom. The first bedroom he had converted into his main living area; it was about five hundred square feet, one side consisting of a makeshift living room, the other as his bedroom. Beyond the bathroom lay another room that he used mainly as a work-room. In the far corner of the main living area he had a small refrigerator. The wall closest to the door was lined with bookshelves and an entertainment center of which the main feature was the wide screen TV. A small futon sofa sat against the wall across from the TV, along with a small end table. A single bed flanked one wall, while at the other end of the room there was a slight dip to the right, which led to a walk-in closet and the bathroom. The room was more home to Charley than the rest of the house was.
He hung his jacket up in the closet, took his tennis shoes off, and went into the bathroom to wash his hands. When he was done he dried them with a white towel and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same as he did ten years ago; he was of above-average height, about six foot one. His brown hair was wavy, slightly balding along the top, and cut short along the back and sides. He had a narrow, pinched face; the kids at school used to call him sphincter face. He wore glasses with very thick lenses and wide frames, which actually improved his looks. His body was typical of a lot of guys in his age group—at forty years old, Charley had a healthy spare tire around his mid-section, and he definitely had a second chin but he hadn't gained much fat in other areas of his body. He supposed a regular regimen of exercise would trim inches off the spare tire and the chin, but he had neither the time, nor the patience, for such mentally unstimulating tasks. He'd much rather be at home reading a book or watching a movie.
Charley moved to the bedroom and began to undress. He threw his shirt, a red and blue plaid long sleeve, on the sofa, then pulled the white T-shirt he wore beneath it over his head. He slipped his jeans down his legs and stepped out of them, shucking his boxers as well. Wearing only a pair of white gym socks, he stepped toward the end table where he had set the package on the TV and took out his purchase.
It was two video-tapes and a bottle of Dr. Pepper. He opened the Dr. Pepper and took a healthy swig. He belched. That hit the spot. Looking forward to the evening's activities, he turned his attention to the video-tapes.
Both videos were geared toward his particular fetish: the first was called Big Boob Bonanza, and claimed to feature over two hours of women with Double D breasts or over engaged in all manner of physically challenging activities. The second was called Tie Me Down, and the title was enough to clue the potential viewer as to the activities chronicled within. He picked the latter box up and began stroking his member, which had retreated into his groin during his brief confrontation with mother. The cover showed a brunette with large breasts—they always had to have large breasts because that's what he liked in a woman—with her hands tied behind her back, lying on her stomach, ass sticking daintily in the air. She was dressed in black leather bondage gear and a black studded collar. She was gagged and blindfolded. A faceless man was drilling her from behind, and from the expression on her face her male partner was quite large. This looked like one of the good ones.
He turned the TV and VCR on with a few clicks of the remote control.
Inserted the tape in the VCR.
Sat down on the sofa, Dr. Pepper within easy reach, along with the small box of Kleenex and a squeeze bottle of lotion.
The tape started.
Charley's breathing quickened.
He squirted lotion into his palm.
And delved into his fantasy.
Charley was just on the verge of reaching orgasm when his mother began to call
for him, shattering the illusion.
“Charley!” Faint, but insistent.
He stopped stroking himself, reached for the remote control, and turned the tape off. He pressed the mute button on the remote control and listened, irritated that his reverie had been shattered.
“Charley! Where are you?” He recognized the tone of voice. She was using her Sick Voice. Mother was taking pills for a wide variety of ailments and it never failed her to lapse into a semblance of illness whenever she wanted attention. Charley, would you please put my legs up on the sofa? Charley, will you get me my magazine? Charley, will you get me glass of ginger-ale? She always claimed that she was getting one of her sick spells, which was why she couldn't do these simple tasks herself. In reality she was really fine. Charley knew women who were twenty years older than mother who were in better health than he was. Mother wasn't sick at all; years ago, her doctor told him that mother's ailments were all in her head. “Humor her,” he'd told Charley one time when he had taken her to the doctor. “She's perfectly healthy but she just wants attention."
He had humored her for awhile, still did at times. But his patience with her when it came to her resorting to her “sick voice” was beginning to wear thin on him. When she first started pulling this on him he would oblige her, getting her drinks of ginger-ale, making runs to the store, whatever she wanted. What she really wanted was to nag at him, ask him the same questions: what are you doing with your life, Charley? Why haven't you met a nice girl that you could bring home? Have you been going to Church like you're supposed to? What kind of friends do you have? What do you do when you go out with them? You know I don't like you going out with people I don't approve of. Yadda yadda yadda.
The answers to the questions were simple. I'm working a stupid, boring fucking job at a giant conglomerate corporation to supplement your social security so we can pay the bills. The reason I haven't met a nice girl to bring home is because women think I'm repulsive, no thanks to you and the way you raised me. The only reason I go to church is to take you and when you don't ask to go, I don't go. I have nice friends, and what I do with them when I go out with them is none of your fucking business.