by Jason Parent
After a few minutes, Victoria came bounding up the stairs to Clive’s apartment. In her hands were an empty cup and a crumpled piece of paper.
“Where did you put the spider?” Kyle asked.
“In the shed out back.”
Clive slapped his hand against his forehead. He quietly let out a sigh of frustration. I use that shed, you little brat.
“Well, we should get going. Rachel may be coming home soon, and it’s getting close to Victoria’s bedtime.” Kyle turned to his daughter. “Get your things.”
When she returned with her Zoobooks, Victoria and her father said their good-byes and headed home. But before they could leave his apartment, Clive had one question for his entomologist niece.
“Hey, Vicki. How do I know if there are more spiders in my house?”
“Well, sac spiders live in little white sacs. That’s why they’re called sac spiders. Check all the corners of your rooms. For other spiders, just look for webs. But if you find some, please don’t kill them. They’re just looking for a warm, cozy home.”
In this heat? They must be the spawn of hell. “I won’t,” Clive lied. “Thanks for your help getting rid of that spider. And keep up your reading. You’re already smarter than me.”
Kyle laughed and put his arm around his daughter, ushering her out. “You and me both, Clive. We’ll see you later.”
“Later.”
With his company gone, Clive readied himself for bed. But first, he had to make sure there were no more unwelcome houseguests. He took a broom to every wall and ceiling in his apartment, save for those in Kevin’s room. As far as he was concerned, Kevin was on his own, which was the way his roommate always seemed to prefer it anyway. Kevin could fight off his own monsters.
Clive checked his pillowcase and under his sheets thoroughly before hopping into bed. Satisfied he had quelled his bug phobia, he turned his thoughts to his unrelenting condition. If his ear was still blocked in the morning, he promised himself he’d see a doctor about it.
CHAPTER 7
T uesday morning, 7:27 a.m. This time, Clive awoke without the assistance of his alarm clock. His sleep had been restless. He was sure he didn’t get enough of it. His body echoed his dissatisfaction. The muscles in his legs and shoulders ached as if he’d spent the entire night running.
He staggered into the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of white knee-high socks and his Rocky and Bullwinkle boxer shorts. He turned on the sink faucet and splashed cold water onto his face. It failed to wash away the grogginess. After wiping himself dry, he stared into the mirror over his sink. What he saw was a man rapidly approaching his thirtieth birthday, his life going nowhere.
Clive looked away, immediately focusing on everything he felt was wrong with his appearance: a receding hairline ironically mismatched by an abundance of chest hair and a few patches on his shoulders and back; grey strands appearing where he wasn’t going bald; love handles that were rapidly transforming into a spare tire; slightly sagging pectorals that his mind exaggerated as estrogen-filled man boobs; a big crooked nose with nostril hair in dire need of trimming; and the pièce de résistance—his lower appendages, which his ex-girlfriend had not-so-affectionately referred to as “chicken legs.”
“Fuck her,” Clive said aloud. Man, I need to do something with my life. Despite all Clive’s embellished physical faults, which he tended to dwell on in spite of the positive, others told him he was handsome—not often, but sometimes. Maybe if he had a little more confidence, he would have no trouble finding dates. He did, however, have a hard time taking compliments.
But a new fault had captivated Clive’s thoughts of late: his persisting auditory problem. I’ll get to you soon enough, he thought, staring down his ear in the mirror as though it were his enemy.
He swung the mirror-door of his medicine cabinet open. From it, he grabbed a disposable razor and hopped into the shower, where he did everything from shaving to pissing to brushing his teeth. He’d have taken a shit in there too if he could have figured out how to push his crap down the drain. Saves time. Easy cleanup.
When he finished his momentary lapse into the realm of personal hygiene, Clive stepped out of the bathtub and dried himself off. He then reached back into the medicine cabinet, pulling out the package of Q-Tips he’d picked up the previous night. He read the instructions on the side of the package and laughed.
“Do not insert into ear,” he read. Yeah, like Mr. Q-Tip doesn’t know damn well where his product is going. If that ain’t foreseeable misuse, I don’t know what is. What the hell else are you supposed to do with them?
Clive thought a minute. His memories sent an uncomfortable feeling into his groin, causing his penis to shrivel up like a frightened turtle. He had partied a little too hard during his short-lived college days, which had resulted in paranoia and a corresponding swivel-stick check for gonorrhea up his urethra. That there is just regular old misuse of a Q-Tip. Sure is a great reason to practice safe sex, though.
He tore open the package and removed a cotton swab. Let’s start with the easy one first, Clive thought, jabbing the end of the Q-Tip into his left ear canal. He swirled it around, making sure to scrape all the wax from the deepest parts of his inner ear that were safely reachable.
Then came the right ear. He plunged the cotton swab deep into his ear, its end unseen, dangerously close to his eardrum. He began to swirl it around as he’d done in his left ear, but this time, he felt something move.
“I got it!” Clive smiled, convinced the source of all his auditory problems had been displaced. But when he removed the cotton swab, no water dripped out of his ear.
The Q-Tip, too, appeared dry. Had it become wet, he thought it would have shrunk, its fluffy coating compressing. However, the cotton seemed to have expanded, almost doubling its original size. It resembled a miniature version of the cotton-candy sticks he used to get at Rocky Point Amusement Park before it closed.
That’s funny. He shrugged and tossed the swab into a trash basket set beside the sink. Maybe that one was like a sea monkey and grew when it got wet.
Clive turned on his faucet and let the water run. He then blocked his left ear. The sound of the flowing water came in muffled through his right. As he concentrated, Clive began to hear another sound. It was a faint pitter-patter at first, like the first raindrops of a storm gently plopping down onto a car windshield. But like those raindrops, the sound grew louder and more frequent. It built in intensity, mimicking the drum roll of a timpanist. And Clive knew just the drum being played.
Oh great. Now this is happening.
What “this” was, Clive couldn’t be certain. With the addition of a crackling tingle, Clive began to panic.
Oh no! Mr. Q-Tip was right! I never should have stuck it that far into my ear. Oh God! I hope I didn’t puncture my eardrum.
All at once, the rumbling stopped. In its place, a constant tone, like that of the Emergency Broadcast System, resounded through his head, instantly resulting in a migraine. Clive prayed he hadn’t caused deafness in his right ear. He blocked his left ear again with his index finger. The sound of the running water was muffled but still present, just as loud as it had been the first time he checked.
Clive breathed a sigh of relief. The annoying tone began to fade. He threw the box of Q-Tips back into the cabinet and turned off the water. I guess I do need to get my ear checked. I’d better make an appointment today.
After he finished dressing, Clive headed to work. Already accustomed to his lesser hearing, he quickly forgot the morning’s events as soon as he walked through the engraved glass doors of the Harcourt Insurance Company. He prepared himself for yet another long and boring day. After sliding his arms across the desk in front of him, Clive rested his forehead upon them. Live for the weekends.
His mind began to wander. It was quickly called back by a weaselly and unwelcome voice, violating any chance of momentary peace. “What up, C-Note?”
“Felix, how many times do I have to tell you tha
t you’re not black? Not to mention, your ghetto slang is way outdated. Your vain, cracker attempts to represent thug life come off as lame, not cool.”
Felix seemed unfazed. “Whatever, G.”
Felix Winters closely resembled a skinny version of George Costanza of Seinfeld fame. Bald on top with black, horseshoe hair around the sides and back, Felix was by far no playboy. He was whiter than an Irish wedding. His thick-rimmed glasses and Owen Wilson nose made him look more dubious than sophisticated. But unlike Clive, Felix didn’t allow his shortcomings to stop him from flirting—a bit too aggressively, if the sexual harassment warnings meant anything—with every woman in a two-hundred-mile radius, sometimes farther on weekends.
An accountant at Harcourt, Felix only did slightly more work than Clive. The rest of the day he spent downloading Internet porn. It was amazing that he managed to keep his job, despite the fact that he was far more deserving of termination than Clive had ever been on his worst day. His vulgar remarks earned him multiple written warnings, yet he clung to his job and his political incorrectness with equal tenacity.
“Guess what I just found online.”
Clive looked up from his desk. He stared wide-eyed at his visitor, amazed that Felix the pervert had somehow managed to misinterpret Clive’s tolerance of him as friendship.
I already don’t like where this is heading. It’s got “computer virus” written all over it. Still, I guess it couldn’t hurt to humor him.
“I don’t know, Felix,” Clive responded without a hint of interest. “What did you find online?”
“A copy of Debbie Does Dallas on Betamax.”
“Felix, do you actually own a Betamax player? Wasn’t that before your time? Regardless, wasn’t Betamax completely wiped out by VHS even if it wasn’t before your time? And furthermore, didn’t DVD destroy them both?”
“Don’t forget Blu-ray. That shit’s like herpes. It’s here to stay. Nevertheless, Clive, I fail to see your point. No, of course I don’t have a Betamax player. No one does.”
“Then why would you want a copy of a porno on Betamax?” Clive asked the obvious question, fully expecting an irrational answer.
“Ah, you lack imagination, my friend. Let me enlighten you. As you know, Debbie Does Dallas is a vintage pornographic film from back when pornography was still an art form. It’s the equivalent of a Picasso, man. Finding a rare copy of it on a discontinued medium is like finding a diamond in a huge pile of horseshit.”
“Coal. Diamonds are found in coal. Although a horse that shits diamonds would probably be a valuable thing to have. They would tear up its asshole something good each time it makes a hot steaming pile, though.”
“You know what I mean. It’s a collector’s item. It’s got to be worth something.”
“Where did you find this ‘vintage porn’?”
“Craigslist. Where else?”
“And how much is it selling for?”
“Six dollars. That’s the beauty of it. Well, plus shipping and handling.”
“And that price doesn’t tip you off that it’s probably not a highly sought-after item?”
“Some people just don’t know what they’ve got until it’s gone.” Felix’s mouth curled into a clownish grin. He seemed genuinely pleased with himself. “On another subject, I also got you those parts you wanted. You should have them in a day or two.”
“What parts?”
“You know…”
Felix continued talking, but Clive blocked him out. His head was ringing, and Felix’s words, likely to end in some forced, sex-related joke, no longer seemed important. He completely spaced him out, although he could feel his lips mimic the response of a captivated audience. When his mind returned to the here and now, Felix was still blabbing away in front of him.
“Well, I’m off to bid on Debbie. Oh, how I want her.”
“Go get her, man. I wish you the best of luck.”
Clive’s sarcasm went over Felix’s head. “Thanks, Clive. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“You do that. Keep me posted.” Jackass.
Felix took off at full throttle. Clive reverted to his usual routine of pretending to do work. He glanced at his watch. Is it lunchtime yet?
He stared at his black computer screen, which was not yet powered up. He could think of nothing to do besides the obvious—work—and he wasn’t about to start that nasty habit. He perused the shelf above him for inspiration, his eyes landing on an old phone book that must have belonged to his cubicle’s previous owner.
“Hey, Kim?” Clive called out across office cubicles. “What do you call those ear, nose, and throat doctors?”
Kimberly Lombardi was Clive’s go-to person at the office for all random trivia questions. She was a claims adjuster for Harcourt and the office’s resident smartass. She seemed to know everything, this time being no exception. In her hoarse, chain-smoker’s voice, she said, “They’re called otorhinolaryng-ologists.”
Ha. Clive laughed to himself. The way she smokes, she would have to know what those doctors are called.
“Thanks, Kim,” Clive replied, not caring that the whole office could hear them. He reached for the phonebook and began riffling through its pages. “Kim?”
“Yes, Clive?” Kim had children, and although she was busy, she showed Clive her motherly patience.
“How come there are no doctors in the phonebook?”
“Try ‘physicians.’”
Clive smiled, thinking Kim the greatest. “Oh, I see them now. Thanks again, Kim.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, Clive?”
“How do you spell opthal-whatever-you-called-it?”
“Start with O-T-O-L. You should be able to find it, no problem.”
“Thank you. You rule, Kim.”
“I know, sweetie.”
Clive found his page and began reading through the names of local ear, nose, and throat doctors, conveniently listed as such in the phonebook. Unlike any normal person, Clive chose to start reading from the middle.
Dr. Richard Gere? There’s no way I’m going to him. He’ll probably put a gerbil up my butt when I am not looking. Urban legend or not, I’m not trusting anyone by that name.
He continued down the page. Dr. Richard Kimble? Of The Fugitive fame? Is this some kind of prank phonebook? Not to mention, that’s two Dicks in a row. Finally, he chose to read from the beginning of the listings. He half-expected to see Dick Cheney’s name first on the list. Here we go. Dr. Shawn Allen. He’s got two first names, but he’ll do. He punched in the number to Dr. Allen’s office on his work line.
“Southeast Medical. How may I help you?”
“Hi. I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Allen, please.”
“Is it an emergency?”
“I don’t know. My right ear has been clogged for a few days now.”
“Probably just a pebble.”
“Why? Is that common?”
“No.”
What a bitch. Clive wanted to reach through the phone and choke him some receptionist. Let it go. She’s just an idiot. I’ll get right to the point.
“How soon could I come in for an examination?”
“You’re in luck. Dr. Allen just cancelled his golf plans on Friday on account of the weather forecast. So you can come then.”
“Friday is fine.”
“Name?”
“Clive Menard.”
“Nine thirty?”
“Sounds good.”
“You have our address?”
“Yes. Got it. Thanks. I’ll see you Friday morning.” Clive hung up the phone, proud he’d actually gotten around to doing something. A productive day. Wait a second. Fuck. I need to ask Judge Judy for Friday morning off now. That’s not going to go well.
He waited until the end of the day to broach the subject with Judith. When he did, she was strangely receptive to his request. She even flashed Clive a wink that sent a wave of nausea coursing t
hrough his body.
Leaving for the day, he again put his hearing problems out of his mind. All would be taken care of Friday morning. On Saturday, his clogged ear would be nothing but a forgotten irritation.
CHAPTER 8
H er body was warm and inviting. She stood bare before him underneath the light of a crescent moon. His hands rested on the curves of her hips. As she shimmied closer, he could feel all his constraint, all his humanity, give way to animalistic lust. She straddled his legs atop the 1982 Corvette Stingray’s elongated hood, seemingly built for their carnivorous appetites. Passion controlled every movement. She reached between her legs for his belt buckle.
“You know we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Relax, Cli,” she commanded, pushing his shoulders back against the windshield. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“But Morgan—”
She pressed her lips firmly against his, cutting off his protests. Before she withdrew, she playfully nibbled on his lower lip. “Shhhhh,” she whispered, pressing his index finger against her wet lips. His finger disappeared inside her mouth, and he moaned as she sucked. Her hands returned to his buckle and undid his belt and fly before he could utter a second protest.
“Already hard?” she whispered, scraping her teeth along the side of his neck, daring to bite. She slid down his pants and boxers just far enough to allow her access. He felt her hand upon him. His back arched in ecstasy, but she pushed him flat against the hood, pinning him in her embrace. He was hers to control.
She placed him inside her. With her palms flat on his chest, she thrust wildly, her eroticism consuming. Clive quickly succumbed.
Perhaps a bit too quickly.
“I’m going to come,” he said, somewhat embarrassed.
“Then pull out! I didn’t take my pill this month.”
“A whole month? How does one forget to take a daily pill for a whole month? Talk about killing the mood.”
Had she noted her lack of caution in the birth-control department sooner, Clive might have been able to stop himself. But the distraction came too late. He tossed Morgan off him, nearly sliding her off the Corvette’s hood and onto the muddy earth. He closed his eyes and used his hand to finish the job. Whatever magic there had been was lost forever.