Quiet . . . what's he doing? Doing nothing, that's what he's doing. Standing there, not moving a goddamned muscle; stiff as a soap lead.
Jesus, you got to get your tiffany nates out of here, fast!
Okay . . . I'm leaving. But I don't want to go past this sonofabitch. He'll probably come out of this friggin' zombie trance soon as I head for the kitchen door, and gore me with an ice pick.
Oh, God, I'm feeling like a parched nun already. Feel that sun beating down. Okay, okay, enough drama. Get back down the hail and do a quick dissolve.
Ain't going to get killed now. Forty-seven and still taken for thirty-seven. Houses in Aspen, and Martha's Vineyard, plus the land in Maui, two yachts at Newport, half ownership in Topo's Italian restaurant, and chicks coming from every which way. Redheads, brunettes, blondes, peroxided Negroes. They all want it bad. And I ain't about to disappoint them. No way. I got everything going for me.
No goddamned zombie twat is gonna munch me out of existence. Okay, down the hall and let's get out of here.
Alright, I'm practically to the door and out of this madhou . . .
Oh, my God. He's at the hall table the ex gave me, reading the trades. How can he do it? How can he move so fas . . . oh, Christ, he's still standing in the kitchen, holding the bubbly water from France. But he's also standing here reading the trades. There's two of the friggin' creepo monstrosities! And I'll bet that one in the bed is still in the bed.
Okay . . . go ahead, look in the hall mirror.
There he is. Sleeping in the bed, all zombied out. Jesus Christ! Can't be happening. Too much Valium. I'm flipping out. I'm cracking. Listen to me, I'm whining. Whining!
Quiet fool, quiet! Sorry, it's just this is scaring the mid-season replacements out of me! You know what's really crazy? And I'm talking bona fide, electro-shock . . . they all look like me! That's the act three twist. All three of the goddamned zombies look exactly like me.
I feel a pain in my chest. What next? Dead nuns falling out of my closet? The garbage disposal weekend crazies grinding me into ninety-percent-tax-bracket caviar? Funny, putz, funny. Keep your thoughts to yourself, okay? Jesus, you gotta get your rich ass outta this place before more of them show and decide to throw a banquet with you as mogul du jour. Take the Rolls and get going!
Fuck!
The keys. They're in the kitchen, hanging on the hook next to the fridge. You jerk! Hitchcock's gotta be around here somewhere. This is just too twisted.
Forget the keys, Listen to me; forget the Rolls, understand? Just get out of here and run down the road and scream for help. Someone will hear. You're famous. They'll know you from the talk shows. Mention Merv.
Okay, back down the hail toward the front door . . . quietly, quietly . . . almost there. Heading for the front door. Grab that knob and get out of this joint. Okay turn the bastard.
I said turn the bastard.
You're not listening . . . oh, yes I am. It's locked, goddammit!
Belch.
Great . . . locked. You forgot, Einstein: the whole friggin' place is on the security lock. You gotta get out. Think . . . think. Alright, goddammit, there is a way. But you gotta go back into the bedroom and turn off the system.
Sure, why not? Probably gonna die anyway.
Okay, back into the bedroom and get right next to that first zombie freak. Maybe strike up a chat. Ask about the family. Probably knows Sam.
God, I'm feeling like hell. Must be the friggin' flu or something. Whole body feels weak. Like I'm going to pass out. Relax, you're just delirious like that ballet dancer with gonorrhea you did for Man From UN.C.L.E.
Better sit down on the sofa.
Zonk . . . here I am, sitting, scared out of my mind. Lovely visual schmuck. God, my head . . . so weak. Got to get over to the big velvet couch. Stretch out. Get off this piece of ritzy cah-cah the ex picked up in Florence. What do friggin' Italians know about couches, anyway? Leave them to their film festivals and pasta. Bunch of fags. Even the homosexuals. Ha! Now there's a joke for you. Even the homos.
Okay, onto the big couch and lay down.
Easy, easy. Lay down and close the eyes. God, I feel like I'm dying. Gotta get outta this horror house. Hey, how's that for a title, Sam? Garbage Disposal Horror House. Yeah, same to you, you monkey dick.
God, I can feel my hand trembling. Look at it, it's tremb . . . Jesus I must be losing my mind! Christ, the fingers are fading. Disappearing right off my arms! This ain't funny anymore.
Please, God, I never ask you for anything but to give Sam genital herpes . . . please, what's going on?
I'm getting scared.
There's nothing wrong, okay? You had too much to drink, got to bed too late and you're flipping out. Maybe you got gas or something . . . lobster always napalms your colon, those beady-eyed, claw-pinching fucks!
It's just a nightmare. Friggin' sensitivity ganging up on you. Well, screw sensitivity. It never got anybody anywhere, right? So take a Valium and go to sleep, will you? Got that big meeting with the network tomorrow.
Alright, if you're not convinced, go ahead; open your eyes and check. Guarantee you the body's back intact. Ain't nobody in this mansion but you, your money and your friggin' paranoia. I'm telling you. Hands are back . . . so are the arms. No more Venus de Milo. Really, I swear.
Trust me.
Okay . . . eyes open . . . one-two-three, and presto-friggin'-chango . . .
Oh, God, he's still staring at me. Or me at him. Or me at me. Cute, cute. Always good with the words.
Lotta good it's doing you now. Your arms and legs are still gone. So what are you going to do? Get a job as a torso in one of Sam's sensitive cinematic epics?
Jesus, I can see through my stomach. It's fading like an out-of-work star. The Incredible Shrinking Putz . . .
I've been poisoned. That's gotta be it.
Marty.
Didn't give him a Rolls last year after he packaged that tit-flick feature with those podiatrists looking for a tax shelter. He poisoned me. Its gotta be him. Marty, I'm coming after you soon as I can get up. Murderer!
Uh-oh, the creep across from me's starting to twitch more. Jesus, what was that down the hall? It's that one reading the trades. He's coming this way! Dammit, stay where you are, fuck-face!
God, I'm getting so weak. I can't think straight. . . 'course that never held me back before.
I hear footsteps coming from the bedroom and the kitchen. Getting closer.
Jesus, what the hell was that out of the corner of my eye? Down the hall . . . it was down the hall . . . it's that one reading the trades . . . he's coming this way.
Closer!
Why is this happening? All I ever wanted to do was direct. Marty, if you did this to me, you'll never work in this town aga . . . Bel . . . not now, schmuck.
Friggin' Hollywood. Bunch of leeches. Gotta get out of this business and do something important.
Oh, Christ, they're getting closer. They're right here. This is worse than friggin' reruns of Gilligan’s Island.
Gotta get out of this town and go somewhere and do something import. . .
Gotta friggin' start over somewhe . . .
Gotta fig . . .
Bel . . .
The gurney was loaded, and the ambulance wailed through the plush canyons of Bel Air, headed for UCLA Medical Center.
The two officers stood outside the huge mansion, watching the ambulance disappear.
"Christ, he was the creator of Robot Police Dog," said the taller one.
"Love that show," said the shorter one. "Best damn thing on the air."
The two watched the Los Angeles sky twinkle through smog. "Medics said heart attack," the taller one finally said.
The shorter one stared at the mansion, thoughtfully.
"Know what's odd? Looking around that mansion there were some really weird things. I mean why would a guy have identical monogrammed robes lying on the floor, in practically every room?"
The taller officer thought that one over, lit a Win
ston, shrugged.
"Who the hell knows," he said. "Maybe he had one for every room? Every mood? Money makes people eccentric, I mean . . . what the hell. . ." Cigarette smoke emptied from his mouth. "Hey, I was trying to remember . . . what did they call this guy? King of the Play-offs or something?"
"No, no," his shorter partner corrected, "Spin-offs. King of the Spin-offs. Guy had more spin-offs on the air than anybody."
"Right, right," said the taller one, and the two men fell silent and stared up at the giant mansion, as if expecting something.
Then, taking the cue, in every room of the mansion, a T.V. set turned on. And on every single one, Robot Police Dog barked its opening credits, bit some bad guys, and went into a commercial.
Mutilator
DIARY NOTES
October 14th
I am bleeding. I can hear it. I listen until the red noise stops. The blood needs rest.
October 16th
Someone hurt me today. They always hurt me. They don’t care.
October 22nd
I hate everyone. I try so hard. It’s time to bleed.
October 29th
Midnight. I am lonely. I press the knife into my skin. The blade is cool. I let it wade through flesh. Close my eyes. Lean back. Warm surf breaks on my skin. I am safe.
October 30th
I am sad. I hate myself. I want to sleep. How did this happen to me?
November 5th
Another horrible day. I wait for the blood to seep, to visit me, in daylight. It wanders out, afraid of light. But I know it craves my attention. Wants companionship. I smear it on my palm. Smile down at it. Move it around, it likes to play. Before it gets sleepy and dies, I lick it up. Allow it to head in, again. Crawl down my throat, into dark pipelines: go home.
November 11th
I can’t be with anyone. Don’t want them to see my body. The scarred curves, burned angles. My secret memories. I am happy with my cuts and sores. I listen to the skin heal.
November 17th
I am angry. I pry my cuts open. I need company. The blood comes out to greet me. Its slow shyness makes me impatient. I squeeze the skin. Peel scabs off. Stand in front of the mirror. Watch myself turn red. I sleep naked on clean sheets. I feel the soft suction of cotton drinking. I sleep.
November 24th
They hurt me again, today. Why do they hurt me?
December 10th
I burned myself with chemicals, again. Let the liquid burn my arms and genitals. My face. It soothes me. Hisses like rain. The odor is a perfume. For Christmas I know what I want.
December 24th
Christmas Eve. I wrapped my presents to myself. The holidays are a good time. A time to not count on family or friends. They never care. Never call. Never loved me. They reject me. Why don’t others love me like I love myself?
December 25th
New scissors. They snip through skin, dig for bone. Shiny hunters, stalking tissue and liquid. I open my other present. I plug it in, listen to the metal tick. I strip and press it to my leg, melting flesh. Sealing out the world. I would like to have friends. It doesn’t matter. I’m safe and warm. It’s Christmas and I am bleeding. No one understands me. No one ever did. But I am safe. And I am warm. I realize how lucky I am. In a world filled with cruelty and misery, I’m never alone. Never in pain.
January 2nd
A new year. I listen to my skin heal. I wait to bleed.
Commuters
Morning traffic snailed along the freeway, taillights pulsing splinters on rainy lanes.
Steve sighed, trying to ignore the tidal wave that splashed across his LTD, as a Greyhound cut him off. He turned the wipers high and watched them rock . . . slosh, wipe, slosh, wipe; a hypnotist's pendulum. It was a wonder he didn't just drift off sometimes and . . .
He sat straighter, pushed in his newest, morning cassette, turned up the volume and glanced at the plastic box.
The title stared at him:
"TAKING RISKS, TAKING CONTROL"
He turned the volume higher, finding the voice on the tape relaxing. He enjoyed using his commute constructively, ever since Karen suggested it their first year of marriage.
"Make something of our lives," she'd encouraged sweetly, once the honeymoon was over, and married life lulled him into its polite trance.
She never missed the chance to remind him good husbands struggled and fought to improve themselves. And they achieved for those they loved.
A bigger house, more money.
A better life.
Last message of the night, first message of the day; the gentle litany was always there.
He turned on the de-fogger and listened closely to a recommendation the tape made about being open to new ideas, as a red Honda Prelude pulled alongside, throwing water against his passenger door. He looked over irritably and saw a feminine hand rub a circle on the fogged glass of the driver's door. A woman's eyes checked the rearview, then glanced at him.
He tried to see what she looked like, but somebody was honking, and Steve realized he'd accidentally swerved toward another lane while watching her eyes. He jerked the wheel straight and glanced over once again, but her window had already re-fogged and she was gone. He sighed as her Prelude pulled ahead several car lengths.
The cassette was talking about embracing risk-taking opportunities, and Steve thought about the client meeting he'd be running in half an hour; the deal he'd stalked for over a year. If it went well, he and Karen would get everything, and he wanted all to go perfectly.
Make the right impression. Succeed.
Be a good husband.
He could almost hear Karen's loving voice, gently shoving him closer to the edge, and tried to ignore the image. His lane was moving faster, and he glanced to his right, where the Prelude lady was now beside him, peeking through a porthole she made, with a circling palm, on her driver's window. He could see more of her than before and noticed her hair-style was plain, her face done with little make-up. He watched her from the corner of his eye, and decided she seemed intent on appearing unobvious. On fitting in.
Then it struck him, as if a whisper from across a room.
Maybe she was like everyone else who rode the tiresome rapids of this freeway, dutifully dressed and on time, glaring anxiously at wristwatches, fearing everything would be lost if they didn't clock-in at nine.
Though Steve fought the sensation every morning, he couldn't help, sometimes, feeling surrounded by well-dressed, well-disguised terror, which moved in lines of dread, responsibilities and obligations making their fingers drum, their ulcers bleed.
Rain fell harder and the cassette was telling him triumph and risks went hand in hand: there was no such thing in life as safety. Only carefully rehearsed and memorized behaviors.
Patterns. Habits.
Tapes.
Just like the one he was listening to.
Only he decided this one didn't feel comfortable to him, its ideas uneasily liberating. He sensed risks weren't the way to get ahead for people like him. Hard work was. He and Karen had even talked about it at length. He enjoyed following rules.
Even though he hated the commute. And getting up early. But then, everybody did.
Sure, his blood pressure was a little on the high side and he smoked too much. And he didn't always sleep as well as he should, and sometimes, late at night, he'd slip out of bed, go into the bathroom, turn the water on and just listen to it, so he wouldn't hear the fears that turned on in his head, like rows of stoveburners.
But then, everybody had moments, didn't they?
He glanced over at the lady in the Prelude and noticed she seemed to be crying, holding Kleenex to her cheeks. Her expression trembled as she gripped the wheel.
The tape was suggesting that taking chances was the only way to have something to show for your life when the final moments slipped away, and all the inventory had been stacked, shelved and accounted for.
Steve wasn't sure why, but he felt suddenly concerned for the woman. Wi
thout thinking, he honked at her. He honked again, and she glanced over, features guarded by wrinkled Kleenex. He didn't know what to do and felt ridiculous: an unwelcome invader in an LTD.
He realized he had to do something and, with an embarrassed expression, hit his electric-window button. As the wet glass lowered, she was there looking at him, her own window sliding down at the same speed.
They stared at each other and he instantly knew he liked her face; it was kind and soft, and her reddened eyes seemed somehow happy to see him. She wasn't really pretty, but there was a vulnerable quality he'd never seen in Karen's eyes.
The sound of splashing traffic forced him to yell.
"Are you okay?"
She shook her head yes, then looked away and back at him, this time shaking no, eyes frightened and sad. Her expression struck something inside him, and he cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled words to her that stunned him.
Dystopia Page 7