The scene disappeared.
Melvin wiped away the tears that flooded his scalded eyes. His hands felt as if they were greased and his tongue held the taste of a crudded dipstick. He looked at his watch and it read 3:45 P.M. He took his kitchen timer, set it on seven minutes, and hit the ground running, his fingers in a mad chase across the keys to hunt down Tommy Green's social security number. At last, he found it.
It did not make him smile. There were hundreds of Thomas Greens, and eighty-nine of them were listed as firemen. The vein in Melvin's forehead throbbed. He clutched at his hair and some of it came off in his hands. His watch read 3:48, four minutes to go.
Melvin squeezed shut his eyes and tried to force his mind to march in a pattern of logical thought. It was not easy. Anger and frustration were a bright red blockade, and it took a supreme effort for Melvin to guide his brain toward the one identifying factor at hand, the social security number. He put both palms against his temple and tried to rush his thoughts through the tangent they were trying to explore.
My students are listed in my grade book by their social security numbers. Most of them are local and the first three digits are common to this geographical area. By god, I've seen the exchange a thousand times! 223 through 302!
Melvin's eyes flew open.
Chances are that Tommy Green was born and raised here. I can identify him, ha!
He scanned the screen and blinked. His jaw dropped and he crashed both fists to the desk. There were two Thomas Greens with the common exchange and a third just one digit off. All three were firemen. Melvin shut his mouth. For a moment his mind soared to calculate the sorry odds of actually finding three Philadelphia-born firemen with identical names.
Time Melvin, time!
He looked at his watch. 3:50 P.M. and thirty seconds. A minute and a half until kick-off and his mind was an angry traffic jam. He scratched his head furiously.
I've got to do all three! Passive Passenger doesn't burn any real time. It's instantaneous. The only seconds I'll lose are those used to punch in the numbers. I can do this, but I've got to move fast.
Melvin took his last index card, wrote down the three social security numbers, and checked his watch. 3:51, one minute to go. He made himself punch the keys with care, and backed out to screen number four.
O—ENTER SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER
Melvin entered his own and hit the RETURN button.
S—ENTER SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER
Melvin glanced down at the first number on the index card and raised his fingers above the keyboard.
"Melvin! It smells like smoke in here. What on earth are you doing?"
Melvin whirled in his chair. Dorothy's eyes widened in response to his appearance, but she looked ready this time. She took a step forward.
"We have to talk."
"You're in my room," Melvin whispered.
"Yes, and it stinks in here. What have you been doing?"
"You have interrupted me." Another whisper.
"You bet I have, and it's high time—"
"Get out! Get the fuck out of here, now!"
Melvin was on his feet, body shaking, fists clenched, tears flowing. His ankle hurt where McNulty had twisted it and he shifted his weight to point a finger.
"Out!" he roared. It hurt his throat.
"No, I will not."
"I said—"
"No."
The alarm on the kitchen timer sounded. Melvin looked at the device and then at Dorothy. His mouth made babbling motions and the rage in him was so hot it felt religious. Dorothy was oblivious.
"Melvin, there is something wrong here. There is something terribly wrong with you and I'll be Goddamned if I am going to let you—"
She stopped in mid-sentence. Something had changed, something new in the air, thick and heavy. The room still held the aftertaste of distant smoke, hot voices, and something else.
Melvin was smiling.
"Dorothy, I want you to assist me in a scientific experiment."
"What?"
Melvin shuffled past her and into the hall.
"Wait here," he said. "I'll be right back."
"But—"
Melvin put up his hands, gave his head a gentle shake, and re-lit the smile.
"The situation is under control. Wait right here and we'll talk, I promise." He hobbled through the kitchen and out the side door. The cold felt good. He laughed into the wind and made his way to the back yard shed.
To get his ax.
Dorothy Helitz felt the pang of danger, real danger the moment Melvin left the room. Her mind told her to flee the house while she had the chance, but she fought it. This was her house too, damn it, and hell if she was not going to get in the last word. Besides, she was dying to tell Melvin face to face what she had done, dying to see his expression when he was informed that she had phoned Gentle Giant Movers, that she had pre-paid by credit card for a pair of brutes to pack all his mechanical crap and cart it to the dump. She looked at the room and rubbed her arms.
I feel soiled just being here. And where are those moving men? I called them an hour ago.
It was too quiet and Dorothy had a sudden apprehension about confronting Melvin alone. It was a childish yet real sensation that bordered on terror. She tried to shake it and couldn't quite do it.
Weak men are the one's who cause the worst domestic crimes, I've seen it in all the magazines. And I really think he has gone crazy. Maybe face to face isn't such a hot idea.
Dorothy smiled.
I'll write him a note and go straight back to the car. If I see him in the hallway, I'll run right through him.
She approached the desk and took up Melvin's pen. It was slick with a oily film of sweat, and she frowned. No tissues in sight, no paper, and the index card file was empty. On the floor was a lone card with numbers on it. She picked it up, bent to write on the back of it, and looked up at the computer. She giggled.
Now there's poetic justice. I'll type him a message on his precious computer. That will show him.
Melvin reached for the ax and yanked it out from under the wheelbarrow and aluminum stepladder, that which had spider webs floating between the rungs. The weapon in his hands was a long-handled affair with old smudges and paint drops splattered up the shaft. A long split in the hickory just beneath the steel head was bound with old frayed duct tape and the micro-finished cutter was dotted with rust. Except at the tip. The keen edge was roll-beveled and sharp for added strength and increased splitting ability.
"The right tool for the right job," Melvin said. He hefted the ax, left hand at bottom and his right up at the head. His smile had not faltered.
I'm going to kill you in the name of science, my sweet, and follow wherever you may go.
Melvin limped back to the house.
Dorothy look up at the screen and cursed. She had just typed "Dear Melvin," but the letters were not showing. Aiming carefully, she hit the "D" key again, but it did not take either. The cursor just jerked in its place below the words,
S—ENTER SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER
"Ah," she said. "It doesn't take letters. It's a code. I've got to log on just like in the movies." She read the screen again and smiled.
Oh, you're not so clever, Melvin. All I have to do is enter your social security number. And it's just like you to come up with such an easy password, too.
Dorothy typed in Melvin's social security number. She snickered and raised her index finger above the RETURN key.
Melvin tiptoed up the hall. The element of surprise was key and the splat of wet feet on hardwood would be a dead giveaway. He heard Dorothy snicker and quickened his pace, careful not to bang the ax head along the wall. He rounded the corner of the doorway and geared his muscles for the rush, the set, and the downward stroke.
I'm going to put my legs and back into it, Dorothy. I'm primed and ready for sport, Dorothy.
Melvin loped around the corner and froze. Dorothy's back was turned, that was good, but she was also bent over the compute
r keyboard, and that was very bad.
"Dorothy, don't touch that! You don't know what you're—"
Dorothy had not heard him coming. His harsh call from behind was startling, but her mind had already commanded the motor function of her finger. It was on its way down and there was no stopping it now. She hit the RETURN key.
The ax in Melvin's hands vanished. His feet were not cold or wet, and he was limping back down the hall to the side door. For a moment he was disoriented, as his body had been magically turned ninety degrees left and five feet to the East, set in motion against his will. Still, the overall sensation was familiar. It was the eerie feeling of becoming a Passive Passenger.
Melvin felt himself open the side door with his thoughts from five minutes before on replay. A keen anticipation of grabbing the ax was at the forefront.
"I'm in myself!" Melvin thought. "I'm the Operator and the Subject!" He tried to shout a warning to himself as he crunched out barefoot into the snow, but of course, he was "passive." The original Melvin had taken his sweet old time.
Melvin re-experienced pulling out the ax, appreciating the craftsmanship of the head, running his hand along the crude shank; it seemed to take hours. Finally, he was back inside, limping up the hall and quickening the pace upon hearing Dorothy's snicker. He rounded the corner, raised the ax and felt a new panic.
Why aren't I floating behind myself for the re-entry? Why is this journey not completing its cycle?
He felt himself shout at Dorothy. He saw for a second time, her finger punch down at the RETURN key.
Maybe it is in the "dead file" because you can't do yourself! Oh please don't hit that button!
Dorothy hit the RETURN key, and Melvin found himself back in the hall, ax-less and limping toward the side door for a third pass. This time he could feel the thoughts of two Melvins, the first tickled with the thrill of the hunt and the second obsessed with the five-minute-old fear of becoming his own Passive Passenger.
The thoughts of the first two Melvins clashed and overlapped. They made harsh echoes and squealed against each other like electric feedback caught in a closet. Back outside, back inside, up the hall and around the corner. Dorothy again struck the RETURN key as he knew she would.
Again, Melvin joined himself and he howled into the deafening roar of three Melvins plus one. His head had become a torture chamber, overcrowded with multiple, dizzying, collisions of thought.
Melvin endured the cycle fifty-eight times.
On the fifty-ninth, his heart exploded.
Dorothy struck the RETURN key and spun around. Melvin was in the doorway with an ax and for a second, she just could not buy it.
You may as well show me an infant smoking a cigar and driving a tractor.
Dorothy gasped.
Melvin is in the doorway with a Goddamned ax!
He screamed in agony. To Dorothy, it sounded like a vast number of voices in unison, and again she questioned her sense of perception. She brought her hands to her face.
Melvin turned in his hands to clutch at his chest and the motion turned the ax blade inward. He fell over face forward and the butt side of the ax met the floor first. His forehead came in a close second place.
There was a loud thunk and a wet shuuck as Melvin Helitz became one with cold steel. The computer whined, sizzled, and gave a loud pop. Its screen shut down to dead black.
And Dorothy screamed. She screamed and screamed and . . .
Melvin shot out of his body and watched his wife scream.
"I never filled out the life insurance forms at school, Dorothy! I forgot! What do you think about that! I forgot!"
The deep and brilliant colors of Melvin's final journey began to close in. He opened his arms to it.
"I'll finally know," he thought. "I'll finally know."
And somewhere off in the distance, a jackal was laughing.
Toll Booth
Anemia: a condition in which the blood is deficient in red blood cells, in hemoglobin, or in total volume.
My name is James Raybeck, and if you are reading this message I am already dead.
It most probably took about two weeks to work through all the young hard-asses, younger jackasses, and older disbelievers trying to make it all night in the booth just once for the thrill of it. It probably took another pair of weeks to put feelers out past Westville and come up absolutely empty in a serious search for long-term toll collectors to work the graveyard shift. I would estimate it was another three or four working days to rush through paperwork issuing the green light for removal, and a couple of business lunches to secure a deal for the dismantling the booth itself, the demolition of the concrete pad beneath, and the excavation of the ground under that.
It is no secret to the townspeople of Westville that the Siegal Group claimed back in '74 that the footer under the base was never properly surveyed and assessed while Runnameade Engineering gave the quicker OK for the construction of the pad, and later, the single toll booth at the base of the exit ramp off the Route 79 overpass. Everyone and their mothers knew that Siegal never really cared so much about that initial pour (small beans) or the possible flaw in the footer (a technicality to be used for leverage). Their real interest was in the contract for an entire toll plaza, a complicated network of lighting systems, road signs, a restaurant complex, a gas station complete with plumbing of its own, and a double-lined two-way straight through to Main Street. It was Goliath's vision. Risky, gargantuan costs up front, and when it all came down to whose bid was chosen, Ed Runnameade was the now late Mayor Smitherbridge's second cousin, and his middle boy was just starting out on his own with Runnameade Concrete, Road Systems, Builders, and Wreckers. The easiest (and most expeditious) solution was dumping in the backfill, pouring the concrete, and enjoying the highest initial profit margin that a simple guard shack, traffic signal lamp, and barrier gate arm would bring despite the horrible things that happened right there at the edge of Scutters Woods.
Since the present-day removal of the booth itself will be the first item of business (the current governor is married to a Siegal) and certain individuals in current positions of power downtown have been waiting for an excuse to move forward with the closure of this particular chapter in Westville history no matter what the cost, I would estimate you are reading this approximately five weeks after my demise, six at the outside. A new contractor recommended by the conglomerate now known as Siegal/TriState Industries, initially agented by some twenty-five-year-old kid with a hangover from last night's adventures at the Pleasure Chest Gentleman's Club out on the Pike, will have found this packet of writing long before his team has taken out the safety glass, disengaged the roof support channels, and used mini-grinders to cut through the welds bonding the wall panels. He will have found this writing in its manila envelope under the storage cabinet that I bolted to the floor with wedge anchors last February. I kept the night-time stuff in that steel case, the lot consisting of a pair of Embury Luck-E-Lite Kerosene traffic lanterns, a Streamline Fire Vulcan flashlight, and a pair of PF 500 power flares, so as to absolutely disinterest the dayshift employees: Tim Clements Monday through Thursday, and Frank Hillboro the long weekend crew chief. And just in case one of them had gotten a wild hair up his ass, unscrewed the bolts, and moved the cabinet before I died of "natural causes"? Well, I do carry a Ruger LCP .380 for protection. I would have had no problem turning it on myself. It has been a long road, my friend.
Since the age of seventeen I have dedicated my life to this toll booth, this literal sanctuary, this metaphorical prison, Monday through Monday, 6:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M. Cal Ripken's got nothing on me. If you entered the town of Westville, Indiana, from Route 79, down Reed Road and through Scutters Woods between the years of 1979 and 2008 after the sun dipped below the horizon, you did it on my watch.
I am the one who endures.
When this structure went up, the first collectors on graveyard shift initially complained of feeling faint. Then came rumors of severe palpitations, followed by stories of
visions in the windows, always at the edge of sight, teasing the periphery of the given operator's view of the 360-degree sliding glass safety panels around him. Some claimed it was a boy laughing maniacally and then being decapitated from behind, while others swore it was a woman ripping apart an embryo. After two short weeks, the booth almost came down. I dropped out of high school to save it. I had no choice.
Within days of my first moments on the job, I started taking Geritol to up my iron and B vitamin counts. It was like a Band-Aid on an amputation. The visions were bad enough, but the blackouts were disastrous. In the first month I was woken up from a dead faint three times, twice by customers laying on their horns, and once in August when a young waitress from Kulpswood actually exited her vehicle, opened the portal door, and helped me off the floor. I approached my doctor and was refused medicine for anemia, which I showed no signs of in my life outside of the booth.
I thickened up my blood the old-fashioned way. I went on a "diet" including high-fat stuff like liver and whole milk. Since my late teens I have consistently eaten breakfasts made of a minimum of five egg yolks, three large links of Hatfield sausage, home fries smothered in onions, and Jewish hallah covered with butter. My lunches have been constructed of various red meats, and my dinners have always included drawn butter, fried side dishes, and cheeses. Between meals I've pretty much settled with deep fried Cheetos and good old-fashioned vanilla chocolate chip ice cream, but have been known to go off the beaten path with Hot Fries, Ranch Doritos, and Ring-Dings. There is no physician worth his salt that would ever tell you that there is a correlation between cholesterol and anemic need, but please believe me when I say that you could not survive the booth with an LDL or triglyceride count under 330. When I started there I was five foot-eight inches and a cool one hundred and fifty-four pounds. Though I have quietly cheated any overt sort of obesity with a lightning metabolism passed down from my mother's side of the family, my small pear-shaped paunch and respectable weight of one eighty-four is deceiving. Stuff like this catches up with you, and I have been a poster-boy for a stroke, blood clot, or heart attack for some time now.
Seven Deadly Pleasures Page 17