David had told him the best way to do it. “You spend forty to forty-five minutes on the interview, then take about fifteen minutes to call in the report as soon as the client leaves the room.”
Jonah was sure that worked for David, but David didn’t need a cigarette between each client, and he probably didn’t obsess over small details when he was with a client. There was no way Jonah could read a report in fifteen minutes. The dictation service had a rewind function. And Jonah used it, making sure he had said what he thought he had said, making sure he had been clear. He always had and always was, but it didn’t matter; he still rewound, over and over again.
Jonah would finish the last report sometime Sunday, just on time to go back Monday and start the entire process over.
Just before the side road to Jonah’s apartment complex, there was a Denny’s. Jonah thought of what he had at home. There was some meat, but none thawed. He had TV dinners, but that seemed too depressing after the day he’d had. He pulled into the Denny’s parking lot.
#
The Monday night at Denny’s was fairly slow. There was a vagrant-looking man in one booth, having a cup of coffee. A couple of college-aged girls were sitting in another booth, books spread out in front of them. Three booths down from Jonah, a guy who looked a few years older than him sat alone and stared at Jonah with obvious interest.
A mildly attractive waitress with long blonde hair walked up and gave Jonah a menu. He ordered an orange juice and a milk. She left, and he lit up a cigarette, noticing how low the pack was getting. He would have to stop at a quick shop on the way home. He knew it would be more economical and save him time to buy the smokes in cartons, but ten packs seemed like a big commitment, given the promise to himself that he would quit someday. Yeah right.
The cigarette tasted bad and burned his throat, which was now way overexposed to the nonfiltered smoke, but he smoked it anyway. When he finally crushed it out, the guy that had been staring at him walked up and sat on the other side of the booth.
“Hey, brother, I’m Tate,” the man said, sticking out his hand.
Jonah sized him up immediately. Tate was Caucasian but dark. He had thinning black hair, cut short, and intense hazel eyes. A yellow T-shirt with some martial arts insignia and sleeves cut off revealed shoulders and biceps that seemed too big for the rest of his upper torso, which was taut but not thick.
Jonah took Tate’s hand and felt a powerful handshake, almost jerking him forward. “Jonah,” he said.
Tate laughed, fast and high-pitched, intense and mocking. His laugh stopped abruptly, and Tate’s face was suddenly practiced pleasant. “You don’t recognize me, do you bro.”
Jonah studied Tate for a few seconds. He thought this stranger looked familiar.
The waitress came over with his drinks, breaking his concentration. Tate looked up at the waitress and seemed to wait for her to look at him. When she did, he raised his eyebrows and continued to stare until she looked away, obviously uncomfortable. Tate let out another high-pitched laugh as she walked away, then stopped abruptly again as he turned back to Jonah.
Jonah wondered if his incredible tiredness was affecting his perception, or could this guy really be this weird.
“I see you around everywhere I go,” Tate said. “And you never say hello.”
Jonah didn’t say anything nor change his expression. He was just that tired.
In what, as their friendship developed, Jonah would come to think of as “trademark Tate,” Tate jerked his hands up and to his side as if to ask, “What’s up?” He held an intense expression on his face for a few seconds, then put his hands down and did the already trademark high-pitched laugh. He said, “I’m just fucking with ya, bro. I live three apartments down from you. I see you at the gym too.”
Now memories came to Jonah. He had seen Tate walking to his car. He had seen him on the nautilus equipment at the gym.
“Tired, aren’t ya, bro,” Tate said, bringing Jonah back to the table.
Jonah nodded.
“And I bet you’re pretty dizzy. Your head aches. Your stomach is starving, but doing flip-flops at the same time. Your mouth taste like a day old cup of coffee with twenty cigarette butts floating in it.”
Jonah sat there, stunned at Tate’s accuracy. Tate smiled at him for a couple of seconds, almost taunting him. Then he said, “And now there’s this bitch in front of you, fucking with your head.”
Jonah didn’t mean to nod. But he was tired. And Tate was right.
The intense stare was back, but only for another second, then Tate’s face and voice became pleasant. He spoke as if he and Jonah were already long-time friends. “All right, bro. I’ll stop fucking with ya and get back another time.”
With that, Tate got up and left.
#
In his first year of graduate school, Jonah had done a paper on obsessive-compulsive disorder. Most people with OCD fell under two broad categories: washers and checkers. Jonah’s apartment was no dump, but it wasn’t exceptionally neat or clean. There were still boxes he hadn’t unpacked from the move stacked in the bedroom. There were dishes in the sink from the day before. Jonah didn’t wash his hands one hundred times a day. Jonah was not a washer. He was the epitome of a checker.
So, when he got home that night, he checked and rechecked his car, made sure it was centered between the lines, lights off, doors locked, over and over again. Inside, front door locked and quadruple checked, he felt as relaxed as he would on this day, and that was just because he had reached the point of exhaustion where he was too tired to worry very much.
After undressing, Jonah went straight to the bathroom and got in the tub. He lay there and thought about the character he’d just met. The things Tate had known were pretty amazing but not unbelievable. Tate wasn’t magic, just perceptive. Being in psychology, Jonah had run into a few other people like that, some fellow students, some professionals, others clients. People had different levels of what they noticed.
Once cleaned up, Jonah got a big cup of water to keep beside his bed. He rarely drank from the cup at night, but he couldn’t sleep a wink, unless it was there. He was about to lie down, when he noticed the answering machine light was blinking. Before he could get to it, what felt like a hundred thoughts flashed through his head: It could have been someone at USC telling him that something was wrong and he shouldn’t have received his degree. It could have been a high official at SSI telling him that he had been too rude to one of his clients and that they were reporting him to the licensing board. It could have been the police . . .
It was none of these things. It was his mother. “Hi, Jonah. I got your message that you’ve moved to Michigan. I’m so proud of you.” There was a short pause and then the sound of her sobbing. “I hope you can come see me soon.”
There was another message, some salesperson about a credit card offer, but Jonah barely heard it, because the memories came rushing in.
“It’s your fault!” his mother screamed at him. He had forgotten to take out the trash. “I had to leave my family because of you!” she screamed. What was she talking about? Why wouldn’t she tell him what she meant? “B- in English!” she screamed, coming into his room waving the report card at him. “After all I sacrificed to get you away, you make a B- in English.”
Get away? Get away from what?
Jonah shook his head violently to make the memories stop. He rushed from the room. He wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while. In the living room, he pondered the TV. No! He considered the computer, the Internet. No! He got his cigarettes from off the top of the entertainment center. There were two left.
“Fuck!” he said out loud. He would have to stop on his way to work tomorrow. It was all the earlier he would have to get up. And it was late now. Tomorrow, he was fucked.
But right now, he put all that aside. He slipped on the pants he’d left on the living room floor and went outside to have a smoke. Outside, halfway through the second cigarette, feeling all the sicker, but forgetting
the phone call, Jonah noticed that he wasn’t alone. An orange-striped cat lay on the grass, not too far from the sidewalk where Jonah stood. It stared at him with beady eyes for a few seconds, then got up and moved away. He would remember that on another night.
#
Walking in South Hall. Why the hell is he here? This is supposed to be over. Jonah has already defended his dissertation. Why have they called him back?
He walks past the main lobby, to the corner door, where the three professors are waiting inside. They sit behind a large table. Dr. Paul Ross, the head of his committee, is in the middle. Why does the old man want him back here? Jonah is done. The two auxiliary professors, Dr. Cindy Wanewright and Dr. Christopher O’neal, are on either side of Dr. Ross. Dr. Ross nods, as Jonah walks up and stands before them.
“Jonah,” Dr. Ross says, his voice echoing. “We’ve found a problem.”
Anger wars with feelings of vulnerability. He waits for Dr. Ross to continue. But Dr. Ross doesn’t. Instead, from behind the thick gray beard, he just smiles, big, mocking. The other two professors also smile.
Jonah notices that he is naked from the waist down. He covers himself with cupped hands but knows that he can’t leave. He can’t leave until this is settled.
“What is the problem?” Jonah asks.
Dr. Ross is suddenly very serious. “You have concluded that impulsivity predicts violent behavior.”
Jonah nods.
“And you have concluded that, when impulsivity is accounted for, neuroticism does not predict violent behavior.”
“Yes!” Jonah shouts. “And it is done! I’ve finished. I have a Ph.D. now.”
Dr. Ross laughs, and the other two profs join him. The anger and embarrassment well up more inside Jonah, then Dr. Ross says, “No, Jonah. This study is not done. You have yet to give the measure.”
“What?” Jonah asks. “I ran my subjects already. All the data has been analyzed and interpreted.”
Dr. Ross points to the corner of the room, behind them. A girl stands there. She’s young, eighteen or nineteen. She has blond hair, tied back and above her head. Innocent looking. She’s wearing a black sweatshirt with the letters “USC” in burgundy. She also has on a black pair of gym shorts.
“You have to give her the measure,” Dr. Ross says, but Dr. Ross is gone.
It’s just Jonah and the student in the room.
“Hi,” she says in a sweet little southern voice. “Is this the study? I was told I could get bonus points.”
Jonah now has pants. He knows what he has to do. He has to give her the measure. “Yes,” he says.
She smiles and comes forward, to the front of the table. He wants to help her. He has to give it to her. He approaches, gets right in front of her and puts his hands on her waist. Her smile grows. He moves one hand up, into her hair, and pulls her head to his. He kisses her hard, tongues moving with force, teeth grinding.
With his other hand, he gets hold of the rim of her shorts, slides them down, then slides down her little panties. She steps out of her bottoms, then he pushes her back on the table. He takes off his pants, exposing his cock, hard and red, visibly throbbing. He spreads her legs. Her bush is neat and trim, her lips pink and smooth. He presses into her. And now he’s giving her the measure.
She’s tight and dry, the burning pain that feels so good. She squirms and moans, and he likes it. This is what he is supposed to do.
There is a voice, some kind of alarm. She’s gone from underneath him, then the room disappears.
#
When Jonah woke up Tuesday morning, his hand was wrapped tight around his penis and he was about to explode, but he realized where he was and that it was just a dream and lost the climax. He got out of bed and began to prepare for another long day.
#
Wednesday had left him with thirty-two reports to do. He had knocked off twelve of those on Thursday. He planned to split the remaining twenty between Saturday and Sunday. Friday morning, Jonah drove down to Lansing for supervision.
David Meade was a vigorous looking man of fifty-three years. Every time Jonah had seen him, David had on a suit. The suit always looked new and always looked expensive. David had five offices scattered about the state. He did a little clinical work himself, but mostly supervised people who could not legally practice on their own, then took the bulk of the money they earned.
He was a cordial enough boss. He smiled and answered all the questions he could, usually with an experience he’d had in his twenty some years as a shrink.
On this Friday, David apologized for not returning Jonah’s call earlier this week.
Jonah then told him about his first client of the week, the one who had stormed out.
David, from behind his large oak desk, laughed with his usual confidence, then said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Just call it in like you would any other report. Instead of giving the usual information, describe what happened.”
Jonah said, “All right,” relieved by David’s calm.
David said, “You might want to call SSI’s main office and tell them what happened too.” He looked calmly at Jonah, obviously waiting for a response. Jonah nodded.
They moved on to other things. Not big, just odds and ends about differential diagnosis and other technical issues.
Near the end of the hour, Jonah asked, “So, you ever have anyone leave like that?”
David laughed. “Oh yeah. Many times. But I usually don’t get so lucky as to have them leave before the interview gets started. Most the time it’s half way through or near the end. I had this one I tested who left right as I was getting ready to ask the last question. He just all of the sudden started shouting that I was a Communist and stormed out. I didn’t see the connection, but I guess it’s all the same. I just called it in and described what happened. SSI paid for it.” David smiled again, lustfully. Jonah felt uncomfortable with that smile. He felt like he could all of the sudden see into David’s heart.
“Just like they’ll pay for the one who walked out on you on Monday,” David said.
After supervision, Jonah walked into the secretary’s office. He asked the secretary to see his timesheet for the week, and she got it for him. He amended it, adding an hour for the client who had walked out.
#
Jonah got home that afternoon and went to the gym. He pumped iron for about an hour, then went for a dip in the pool. Afterward, he had a smoke in the parking lot before driving home. He had just gotten out of his car when Tate came walking from his apartment.
“Jonah! Bro! What’s up?”
Tate stood there on the sidewalk like he was waiting for Jonah.
“Not much,” Jonah said. It was strange for him to see Tate now, tired from the drive and his workout, but not nearly as tired as he had been the other night. It was as if now he could confirm that Tate wasn’t some strange hallucination he had experienced.
Tate lifted his eyebrows, just as he had at the waitress the other night, his hazel eyes growing almost inhumanly big. “Really!” he said, then gave the high-pitched laugh, which still didn’t trail off, but ended abruptly. And then there was cool, friendly Tate.
“So what’s doing, bro? You just get through working out?”
Not so amazing that you know that, Jonah thought. He had on his workout clothes and was carrying his gym bag. “Yeah,” he said.
“Just the weights, huh? No cardio?”
Okay, that’s a little better. “Well, I hit the pool.” He’d not done much in the pool, other than cool off, but Tate didn’t have to know that. But did he?
In the next few seconds, Tate just stared at Jonah, a frozen, relaxed look on his face. In that time, Jonah wondered if Tate knew that he had tried to mislead him, but he waved the thought off as ridiculous.
Then Tate said, “Ever worry about a heart attack?”
Tate had him. It was a dangerous combination. The weights kept him looking good enough, but did nothing for his cardiovascular system. On top of that, he sm
oked and ate whatever was convenient. He was a big ball of nerves. Yes, he was a prime candidate for some cardiovascular incident. And yes, when he thought about his health, he did worry.
Tate’s laugh spared Jonah the indignity of trying to answer. After stopping fast again, Tate said, “No, bro. I’m just fucking around. But, hey, you got anything going down tonight?”
“No,” Jonah said. “Not much.” Jonah had no social contact whatsoever here. So freaky mind reader or not, Jonah would jump at the opportunity to hang out with someone tonight.
“All right. Why don’t you come down to my place around eight? We can cruise over to Mikey’s and shoot some pool.”
#
Mikey’s was a sports bar: A different TV visible from any place in the building, banners of the different Michigan schools and autographed pictures of various athletes on the wall. Half the bar was a game area. There, Jonah and Tate shot pool.
Jonah was not the worst pool player in the world, but he wasn’t good either. Tate, on the other hand, might have vied for the title of worst pool player in the world. It was their fourth game, and Jonah had seen him hit five shots so far, and two of those seemed completely accidental. Tate hadn’t said much, and he wasn’t paying much attention to the games he was losing. He seemed to be focused on the room in general, watching the little groups of people, smiling, laughing at them.
People amuse him.
“Nice place,” Jonah said.
Tate shrugged. “It’s all right, bro,” he said, then stepped up to the table and missed a corner shot. “It’s off the main drag, so you don’t get a lot of the college kids.” Tate went back to observing the room, indifferent to the conversation Jonah had started.
Jonah felt pretty good. He was working on his third pint of beer. They had taken Tate’s car, which meant that his car and his stuff were all far enough away that he didn’t have to obsess about them. He was, however, smoking almost constantly.
Scribner Horror Bundle: Four Horror Novels by Joshua Scribner Page 2