by Jeff Orton
A half-second later, he walked in. Big Bad Galen. He ambled into the club with a slow stride that made me hate him all that much more. It was a deliberate John Wayne wannabe walk, the kind that screams: A douchebag has entered the room! A douchebag has entered the room!
The rage I felt just then could have landed me in prison had I been wearing a gun that night. Until then, I’d seen Galen only in a blurred vision where the air around me had felt thick and gummy. And now he’s here in front of me taking a chair by himself at a table halfway across the gentlemen’s club.
I wanted to get him tonight. My mind was working, calculating, trying its damnedest to figure out a way to get that done. I felt like a rattlesnake, coiled up at the very back of a rat hole, watching with malevolent, beady eyes as my prey enters the habitat I’ve secretly invaded.
“You okay, man?” Eli, Bo’s drummer, asked. He’d been going on about a band named Korn that he thought was “absolutely tits, man.” (Whatever the hell that meant.)
Bo turned to me with a smile, “You’ve only had half a beer. Do not even try to tell me you’re drunk.”
I smiled back, “You just wish I was. Probably hoping I’ll pass out, so you can have you’re way with me.”
The guys had a good chuckle at that one, even Lloyd couldn’t help but grin, at least that was until Bo retorted, “I don’t want any of your man-bootie, Jess. Besides, I could never find an asshole that fits tighter than Lloyd’s.”
That was it. We all lost it. Except, of course, for poor old Lloyd, who sat in his chair with his arms crossed looking just as sullen as ever.
But then my eyes fell upon Galen again and the laughter in my throat died. My thoughts turned to what I’d seen him do to his wife in front of his own son. A cold hatred consumed me. My stomach was queasy; my pulse was jack-hammering. It was like I’d been dropped into the Antarctic Ocean.
Then something — what the fuck... what the hell is this shit???
A weird, creepy feeling came over me as I sat there with my icy stare, trying to drill a hole into the back of Galen’s head. Something which I can only call instinct was telling me there was someone not just watching me, but scanning me: reading my thoughts as I had done to so many countless others.
My head jerked up and my eyes sought out the perpetrator almost instantly. Over to my left, standing next to the bar, was a cocktail waitress. She was clenching a small circular tray of drinks in front of her. Her mouth was slightly open and her eyes were wide with fright and anxiety. She’d seen all the things going on inside my head. She knew I was planning to kill the big guy sitting a few tables over from mine.
We made eye contact for perhaps a full second before she broke and headed towards another table with the drinks. Her long, full-bodied hair swayed behind her as she fast-walked to her destination. Her hair was a rich, dark, almost maroon shade of red. As she delivered her drinks and collected the money from the two middle-aged men, I hit her with the most forceful scan I could muster. I had to find out what exactly she’d seen and what she planned to do about it.
She felt it too. She snapped her head around and scowled at me, then sent something back that I can only describe as the mental equivalent of a hard punch in the nose. I actually felt physical pain, though tolerable and fugacious, for a moment. It was like something in my sinus cavity, behind my nose and eyes, had popped and was sending out these shrill sound waves that echoed inside my skull, making it vibrate like a tuning fork.
I had closed my eyes from the pain, and when I opened them I caught just a glimpse of her red hair as a pair of thin, plastic swinging doors swung shut behind her. Apparently, she’d found an escape route to the kitchen after delivering that telepathic wallop.
Bo was snapping his fingers at my face, “Jess, Jeshua, hey man, you’re sposta’ be starin’ at the strippers, not the waitresses. Strippers are the one with no clothes on.”
* * *
Before we go any further, let me explain something else about psychic phenomena. Let me throw out another theory I’ve got. I believe humanity’s psychic talent is something that has naturally occurred through the slow course of evolution. Many would be surprised to discover that about twenty percent of the people I have met in my lifetime display some level of psychic ability. Albeit most of them are in the ultra minor league, meaning they probably aren’t even aware of their own capabilities. If you’ve ever felt someone was watching you and then turn around to discover there is indeed someone staring at you, then you’re probably in this category.
I believe there is some as of yet unexplored part of the brain that can act much in the same way as a television or radio does. And that possibly another part of the mind acts like a broadcast tower. Imagine that every human brain has the capacity of becoming a two-way radio that can both send and receive signals.
The two reasons the entire world is not made up of mind-readers are simple: 1) These “radios” in our heads have no dial; there’s no way to change the channel and, 2) Of those precious few who are born tuned to the right frequency, far far fewer have the ability to turn up the volume.
That twenty percent I mentioned earlier. . . Most of them are almost tuned to the right frequency, but get a shitload of static combined with jumbled information that’s hard to decipher. And the people with the volume problem will only be able to hear the thoughts of others when they are concentrating fiercely.
Sometimes I wonder if some of those poor souls with their volumes cranked up full blast aren’t the ones yelling incoherently in all the insane asylums of the world. You know, the disturbed unfortunates who keep complaining about all voices in their heads.
I went through this spiel to make a point. Until I met that redhead, I’d never known anyone with enough psychic talent to rival my own. Hell, her ability might even surpass my own. I’d never been able to deliver a psychokinetic punch like she did—but then, I’d never actually tried. I didn’t know something like that was even possible.
For the following week, I thought little of Galen, but quite a bit of that redhead. My theatre troupe at college was entering the dress rehearsal phase of our production.
Construction of the set was finally complete and I was surprised at how professional everything looked. The concept was to make the stage look like one large section of the Berlin Wall, giving it a chiseled, chipped-away appearance. The result was a concrete gray floor with several levels—levels of various, almost random lengths, heights and locations.
Most of the night went by slowly. It was a tech rehearsal, which meant for hours we mostly stood still in full costume and make-up while the backstage techs tinkered around in the sound booth upstairs. Our director decided which shades of lighting she liked for which scenes and decided what music or sound effects should be played for the pivotal, plot-filled moments.
Every cast member’s costume was the same: black turtleneck long sleeve shirts, black cargo pants, black belt, black boots. Am I painting a picture here? Finish off that costume with a long, red sash which was supposed to hang on your neck with both ends hanging evenly just past your waist.
The technical director had finally fixed the dry ice machine which hadn’t been used by the department in years, and soon the entire stage floor was blanketed by a thick, white fog. A thin, diluted amount of it rose upwards like a fine mist, consuming the air like cigarette smoke.
“Okay, last scene, people,” our director announced from about the tenth row back in the auditorium, “Aaaaand, go. . .”
The last scene was, of course, the climax of the play and the blocking (actors’ stage movements) was incredibly complex. Near the end, it was like a pro-wrestling battle royale. Everyone’s shouting, fighting and trying to remember where they have to be when it all ends.
I was having a fuckin’ blast. I was a man dressed all in black, whooping ass on a stage covered by two feet of solid fog. It was like starring in some kind of surreal, futuristic action flick.
I had Lloyd in a headlock and was pretending to deliv
er a series of rapid-fire blows to the face when I just happened to glance up. I saw another cast member I didn’t recognize, which struck me as significantly odd since I had been working with the same twelve people every day for four weeks.
He was down near the right front corner of the stage, watching everything with mild amusement. He was wearing a matching costume, complete with red sash; but all the actors were supposed to be in the midst of this choreographed brawl.
Then I realized, as my heart stopped beating momentarily, that I did recognize this visitor. He had the same long brown hair that ended at the collarbone. The same hook nose. The irises of his eyes were either black or such a dark shade of brown that they might as well have been. He appeared to be somewhere in his late twenties.
It was the same phantom stranger I’d seen just shortly after I’d put two bullets into my adoptive father, possibly the same one Kimber had seen on her side of the vision.
His shadowy countenance looked menacing in the pale, dim lighting our director had chosen for this scene. The way the fog rolling across the floor cut him off at the shins, and the way the thinner fog obscured his features burned into my mind forever an image of the way a truly powerful villain should look.
The battle part of the scene ended, and as I took my place at the rear of the stage, I saw the man walk all the way to the side wall where one of the large theater curtains hung. He leaned against the brick wall with his right shoulder, and surreptitiously slid his right foot behind his left. A deep, horrified part of me knew what he would do next. He would keep moving his right foot higher until his right ankle touched the back of his left knee forming the figure 4 position I’d left Jack in. He knew... but his feet stayed where they were.
In the right pants pocket every cast member carried a small flashlight not much larger than a marker pen. We each snapped on our lights, pointed them out into the empty rows of seats and began slowly marching forward, simultaneously uttering a loud warning/preaching sentiment that would end the play.
We were almost to the front of the stage when I blinked my eyes. It was a normal blink, nothing dramatic. But then the man appeared directly in front of me, the tip of his nose not three inches from my own. I hadn’t detected any movement from where he’d been, nor did I feel any breeze as I knew I should have felt had he rushed towards me. The fog hadn’t even been disturbed.
Startled, I cried out in astonishment and jumped back. My feet slipped and my ass hit the floor—hard. My tailbone protested, shooting a bright bolt of pain up my spine.
He crouched over me and rested his elbows on his knees, interlocking the fingers of his well-manicured hands. They were hands like mine, hands that had probably seen little manual labor and even less sunlight.
Ms. Wunterlynn, our director, called out, “Jeshua, are you okay?”
The man smiled just then, cocking his head to the side as if to hear her voice better.
“Jeshua,” he whispered.
The other cast members were approaching me, concerned.
Bo held out a meaty farmboy’s hand, offering to help me up. “Gotta watch your feet,” he said, “You’ll fuckin’ break your back this stage has got so many levels.”
The visitor’s eyes met mine. And he vanished. No flash, no fade-out, no special effects shit. He was there. I blinked my eyes. Then he wasn’t.
I didn’t have to be a mindreader to know no one else besides me had seen him. The director would have undoubtedly spoken up if she’d seen someone she didn’t know walking around on stage in one of our costumes during a critical tech rehearsal. It would have freaked everyone else out as well. And I felt nothing coming off them except for a moderate but genuine worry that I might be hurt.
I took Bo’s hand and was hefted off the floor a little too quickly for my own personal taste, though I knew he meant well. The small place where my back ended and my ass-crack began was broadcasting a dull pain that was steadily decreasing with every second that passed.
“What happened?” Ms. Wunterlynn asked.
“Guess my feet just slipped out from under me,” I explained, doing my best to look embarrassed, which wasn’t difficult.
* * *
Bo and I went to the Hunter’s Den again that night. After rehearsal, I hadn’t really wanted to go home yet and Bo could tell. I accepted his offer to get me in again with much appreciation.
The environment alone was relaxing enough, but the leather swivel chair I sank into felt wonderful on my back. Beautiful women came up and said hi to Bo, especially the ones who hadn’t seen him in awhile.
“So how’s the play going?” a hot brunette asked as she approached from behind and hugged Bo around the neck.
“Doin’ good, doin’ good!” he replied, “Opening night’s Thursday.”
“Really? Me and some of the girls were thinking about checking it out.”
“Please do. We can use all the audience we can get.”
There were several other dancers that night who came up and had similar short conversations with us. Since they were actually talking to us, and not working us the talks were understandably brief; they were on the clock and had to keep busy.
I was looking around the club, searching for that waitress with the red hair.
Bo looked over at me and smiled, “If you haven’t seen her by now, she’s probably either off tonight or worked the lunch shift.”
Although I was certain Bo possessed no psychic abilities, he did seem to have a sharp intuition when it came to the romantic.
He laughed, “Don’t try to play it off. I saw the way you looked at her. You had all these huge breasts staring you in the face and you were looking at some waitress who was fully-clothed.”
I was silent for a moment, hoping the ridiculously dim lights would hide whatever red flush of embarrassment touched the pale skin of my face.
“It’s not like I’ve fallen in love with her or anything. I just thought I recognized her from somewhere. That’s all—“
And as the words left my mouth, I realized I never should have said them: That’s all. Those two words felt like the ultimate guilty plea when they were on my tongue and Bo knew it.
His grin widened as he sat back and enjoyed his correctness. “You know I could ask around for you. See if she’s married or a lesbian or whatnot.”
“Lesbian?”
“Yeah,” Bo explained, “I’d say a little more than half the girls that work in strip clubs are either gay or bi.”
“You’re shitting me,” I replied, even though I knew he wasn’t.
“No, it’s true. Think about it. If you’re an attractive lesbian seeking the company of other. . . let’s say: teammates, what else would make a better occupation? Not to mention it fuckin’ pays great. A lot of these girls can bring home two grand on a busy night, especially the ones who know how to work the guys.”
With that I silently wondered why a pretty redhead would be waiting tables at a strip club rather than dancing in it. I mean, if it has to do with morals or religious values, why not wait tables in a normal restaurant? Why a titty bar?
* * *
Our auditorium seats about six hundred and on opening night I could only make out two dozen or so vacant seats, most of them, of course, being in the “nosebleeds” up high in the back.
I’d never performed for an audience anywhere near this size, and my already heightened apprehension was doubled by my near-certainty that the apparition was preparing to make another appearance. If that happened, I would get the privilege of freaking out in front of a multitude of spectators this time.
We took to the stage and the show went well. But halfway through, I felt the gentle, telepathic touch of the woman from the Hunter’s Den. Although, I couldn’t pick her out in the audience, I knew it had to be her. With the exception of the front two rows, the faces of the auditorium’s occupants were nothing but rows of floating black heads. Besides, I never really got a chance to look out into the audience because I was constantly moving ninety percent of
the time, with the rest of the cast.
The mental caress lasted only a few seconds, but the memory of it lingered. It was like soft fingers sliding up the back of my neck and sifting through my hair. The kind of touch that forces you to shiver while your whole body breaks out in goose bumps.
I almost fucked up my lines twice because of it.
When the play was over, I crossed through the backstage area, went across the hall into our large dressing room/make-up area (commonly called a Green Room by theatre people) thankful the phantom stranger had decided not to play with my head tonight. While I was leaning over a sink, scrubbing the make-up off my face, I closed my eyes and attempted to scan the entire performance hall.
I expected what I received: a bunch of jumbled voices talking over each other like in a crowded party. Trying to pick out one person’s thoughts was damn near pointless. But the woman must have felt me trying to reach out. I heard her voice echoing out of the din of the exiting audience.
Is that you? she asked, seemingly from the bottom of a well.
I was hesitant to answer back. Not only was I unsure if I was capable of telepathic communication, but I was also leery of letting this girl know who I was. She’d seen my thoughts. She knew I was planning a murder and I had no idea what else she’d observed when she scanned me. And let’s not even mention that she has a mind powerful enough to mentally bitchslap me from about thirty feet away. Is she capable of more? What if she concentrated a little harder?
Cautiously, I answered her, If you can hear me, meet me in the hallway to your right as you walk out of the ground floor exit. . . You know what I look like. . . Walk up to me and . . . Shake my hand.
I looked into the mirror over the sink, dried my face with an old bleach-stained towel and moved my head up and down, and side to side to make sure there were no remnants of make-up anywhere on my neck or around my ears.
As I was tying my shoes after changing clothes, Bo walks in, “You lucky son of a bitch! When did you even get a chance to talk to her?”