Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  Once you get to know people, you realize they’re full of shit anyway. Senseless, meaningless chatter. That’s all it is. People take it personally my eyes glaze over! It gets tiresome.

  I come across as arrogant most of the time. That’s what people tell me. They say I’m opinionated and egotistical, as if I know everything, like it’s my fault I’ve heard it all a million times. Should I put myself through the agony of listening to it again?

  It was the last thing I wanted, though. I mean that. I never meant to stir up trouble. Hell, I still don’t know how it happened. It’s about persecution or some damn thing. I could tell you everything, sure, but it’s all one-sided. You know, opinions and ego and all that crap. You’d have to hear their side, too, I guess. It’s a rather biased story. Coming from me might mean forcing yourself to enjoy my company. God forbid that should happen! No one in this town likes me anyway, so listening to my side seems asking a lot. I’m a ghoul! That’s what they think, these people here, this town. It makes me sick. Never have liked it, never will, like 7-up, you know?

  It’s the mountain air. People go crazy in it. They’re so…protective of one another. Things are peaches, and then someone like me comes along, disrupting the entire flow. “You don’t belong here,” they tell me. “Go back where you came from.” Like something out of The Twilight Zone. That’s my conclusion. I believe it. Worse than organized religion. Like a bunch of puppets. They get an idea in their heads, and there’s no dissuading them. Or maybe it’s possible I’m telling the truth! There’s an idea!

  They don’t know what free thought is. They couldn’t think for themselves if they were the last people on Earth. If you programmed them to go their own way, like Fleetwood Mac, they’d find someone else to make their decisions for them. They’re scared. They don’t know how to be unique. They don’t question.

  I’m still trying to figure out what I did wrong. That’s the thing. That’s what all this is about. How did I get here? Stupid place! Small towns! I fuckin’ hate ’em!

  Sorry, dad.

  Have you ever heard of Idledale, Colorado? Mountain, college town? Like they all have Alzheimer’s. I tell you its there! It’s real, and they don’t take prisoners!

  Mountain colleges appealed to me. I’d spent years in the city. Some people like it; some don’t. For me, it’s like you spend your whole stupid life trying to cross the street. Fine dining, the sporting events, the social calendar. Give me quaint, quiet, and reflective any day! Take the hotels and the paid parking. Who needs it?

  And, let’s face it. Not all our children go off to Harvard or Yale. Some of us don’t get our precious tummies rubbed while our pristine parents feed us candy-colored spoonfuls of perfection. Some of us are not chosen! We have to fend for ourselves!

  I checked into several colleges, this being the closest and least expensive. Education is education, right? One should be thankful.

  This is the glitch. The college, you know, what they call it…I laughed for hours. Maybe that was the sign I should’ve never enrolled. It’s an extremely well-thought-out name, Idledale’s College. That’s not the name. It should be. It would make more sense that way. College of Idledale, even. But no. It is, quite inelegantly, instead, University Place.

  That’s it. That’s all. That’s the goddamn name.

  It must’ve started then, when I found out about the university, and made the move. I remember making some sarcastic comment about it, and someone overheard. After that, things spiraled out of control. Rumors spread fast in small towns. All I said was something like, “What the hell kinda stupid name is that for a bastard school like this in this ridiculous, corkscrew, po-dunk town?” I don’t know why they got so mad.

  I enjoyed some light journalism, creative writing. I wanted to expand my literary prowess, get a job on the local paper, The Idledale Post. I wanted to immerse myself in it all, become one of them, adjust myself to the flow. I mean, I wanted them to accept me. I wanted to be part of them.

  I found a decent job at a Circle K, got settled into classes in the fall of 2008. I managed to land a not-too-shabby apartment on the outskirts of town. I was lucky to get a few grants along the way, and I used them wisely. I enjoyed the Circle K job because you got to meet everyone in town whether you liked it or not. What a perfect, journalistic approach. Now, I had shelter, a job, ample time to immerse myself in my studies, trying to be a better practitioner of pen and ink.

  Things were chugging right along, except for the slip I made about the university. I felt pretty good about everything. My classes were challenging, and I eased smoothly into them. I met a few friends along the way. One of them we’ll get to later. He’s a goofy, high expectation sort-of-bastard.

  Creative Writing was the coolest. Freedom of expression is a wonderful thing, and I wanted to take full advantage. Writing can be quite peaceful when it’s not a fucking headache, you know? (Oh, shit! Sorry dad!)

  Anyway, we had this assignment near the end of the semester, a short story kind of thing. Pretty cool, if you like that sort of stuff. So, I thought about this tale about a truck driver who hears voices through the radio in his semi. He turns the thing off and the voices are still coming through. The voices are telling him to run people down while he’s driving, trying to drive the truck driver guy whacko, you know? Anyway, the guy eventually goes mad and ends up driving through houses and backyard barbecues, small towns like this one. I called it, This Guy That Goes Crazy and Drives Through Backyard Barbecues. In one scene, the truck driver runs down some dude in a blue Ford pick-up. I described the guy and the truck in the story, you know? His hair color, physique, the model of the truck, an American flag sticker in the window behind the driver’s head. I even said the guy’s name was Arnold Raintree. Real descriptive, you know? Lots of detail. Trying to get into it. I got a B+ on the story, so there must’ve been something good about it.

  Anyway, my teacher, Mr. Hemmersfield, told me he wanted to publish it in the school paper. The story wasn’t very long, but I thought that was cool of The Old Hammer Doctor. Everybody calls Mr. Hemmersfield, The Old Hammer Doctor. He doesn’t mind you calling him that, either. He’s a pretty cool guy.

  So, he pulls a few strings and gets the thing published. It was pretty exciting. Everything’s moving along as you’d expect, and everyone’s congratulating me. They’re telling me how cool the story is. Maybe you ought to be some kind of writer, Jeremy. Like they’re all a bunch of fucking comedians.

  (Ah, hell, dad, just deal with it…)

  As they say in the Bible, all hell broke loose, like being struck by lightening! Maybe that wasn’t the Bible. Anyway, the walls came a-tumblin’ down. Same thing, really, only John Cougar Mellancamp said it. That I do know. If you can’t rely on the Bible, turn to music.

  All the way to the fabric of his cotton shirt to the American flag sticker, and the receding hairline, Arnold Raintree is the man in my story, and he is a real man living here in Idledale, Colorado, home of University Place.

  Could I have a drum-roll please!

  He was killed several months ago by a truck driver.

  True story.

  I know what you’re thinking! Laughing, right? Just like I did when I found out the name of the university.

  That’s what I get. Too predictable. I mean, that’s fresh! Well, it happened. I don’t care what anyone says. Ask the Idledale community.

  ’Saw it in the paper like some kind of sick joke, you know? Like they’d taken my story and ran it as a cover story, no pun intended.

  Someone’s out to get me. I don’t even get the paper, but I did that day, right on my front porch. That’s the funny thing. Good old Raintree! You sly devil!

  Someone put the paper on my porch with the article in plain sight. It didn’t mention the story I’d written. Not that it mattered. The people here knew what was going on. Eyes peered around every corner, suspicious characters following me home. Some carried baseball bats and tire irons. Ladies and gentleman, we have a rotten apple in our spri
ngtime basket!

  I wrote the stupid story long before it happened, but that didn’t matter to them. They just wanted me to know they knew, and that I’d better keep an eye out if I knew what was good for me.

  Trying to be a good student, mind my own business and this is the thanks I get!

  That’s what they thought. They weren’t about to let me get away that easily. They’d make me sweat a bit. Even the police drove slowly behind me in their cars as I walked through town.

  I had killed Arnold Raintree, not the lunatic truck driver, and there was no changing their barricaded minds.

  How’s that for business? Pree-ty scary. I wanted to wave my hands in the air, shout, “Hey! What’s with this story business! That’s all it is! You know that, don’t you? That’s crazy! If I killed him, why would I write about it? Why would I deliberately publicize my plot and proceed as planned? Someone’s trying to blackmail me, set me up. Someone here doesn’t like me!”

  None of us like you, I heard them reply. You’re a lunatic!

  Stranger things have happened. I’m not the only one with a story like this. This has happened to you, too, right?

  I’m hanging by a thread here!

  I couldn’t go to work without receiving the same evil glares. People wouldn’t come into the store and let me ring up their Suzy Q’s. The manager was about to let me go before I begged and pleaded. Old lades hissed at me, “Murderer!” when I walked by. “Probably poisoned all the Twinkies, put petrol in the Gatorade!”

  The only support I had was from Ricky Lee Handly, the goof I mentioned earlier. He’s a music major. Ricky Lee Handly. Ought to be in lights, right? He wants to be the next Mozart or something. Sounds more like a country western singer, if you ask me. Ricky Lee, from po-dunk Idledale, ladies and gentleman, is about to perform Mozart’s Piano Concerto #5 in E major.

  I don’t know anything about Mozart. I don’t know what piano concerto is. I’m winging it here.

  Ricky watched out for me at least. He thought all this was crazy, too, the reactions I was getting. He was the only person who showed any enthusiasm about my truck driver story. He’s a pal, despite the name.

  Even school harbored the same hostility. People deliberately sat away from me in class. The teachers never called on me, and whenever I asked a question, they pretended not to hear, and looked somewhere else.

  I love the hospitality of these towns. For the first time, I was seriously contemplating moving out.

  One minute I’m an out-of-towner trying to mind his own business, the next, I’m the neighborhood psychopath! Truth, Light, and the American Way! No wonder I’m so popular!

  If I had written a love story, they’d all be pissed I got two people to live happily ever after! ‘Those two people aren’t supposed to be together, Jeremy! What in God’s name’s the matter with you?’

  Make lemonade, right? These are big lemons.

  The police never stopped by, which seemed strange. Wasn’t I their number one suspect? A little too accurate in detail? It wasn’t proof, I guess.

  After a while, Ricky hinted about me packing up and moving on. It made me wonder about his friendship. ’Started to question and doubt that cowpoke every time! Had he turned against me, sided with them? He was a native of Idledale, so I could believe it.

  But I couldn’t just up and leave. That would be, like, admitting to the crime. I had to validate myself, prove my innocence. I accepted the leers, the angry, stinging remarks. I smiled through it all because there’s only one person who knows I’m innocent, and that person is me.

  The longer it went on, though, the harder it got. I was an outcast. I didn’t belong here, and they let me know it in every gesture, word, and glance. Was I just gonna keep living this way?

  Maybe I should write another story. Then when nothing happens, they’ll know it was all a fluke. I could do something obvious, something that happens everyday: a wife bashing her husband’s head in with a rutabaga, maybe.

  I put on a second face. I had to ignore it as best I could. This was a backwards, narrow-minded town. They had their own way of doing things. I had to mold myself to their groove, take advantage of everything I could to prove I was one of them.

  When people approached me, thinking I was a murderer, I replied with: “I know you think I’m a murderer. But I’m not! And you ought to be ashamed of yourself! What about judgment, quick to wrath? Tsk-tsk says the voice of God, looming over you, a fallen child.”

  This was the only part of the Bible I knew, but it helped.

  Most of the time they just looked at me, as if this kind of thing proved my guilt.

  I was getting tired of it, though. It was getting old. I was heartbroken. I cried alone in my apartment. After Ricky, I had no one else to talk too. What was I supposed to do, when I hadn’t done anything to begin with, and I had all this schooling still to go?

  Trying to put my thoughts elsewhere, I was sitting home on a cold November night, reading an Agatha Christie novel when I saw something out my front window. I was so shaken and scared, I about hit the ceiling! Agatha Christie went sailing through the air. My hands did a flighty dance, as if someone had plugged me into a light socket. My heart leapt into my throat.

  An old woman, roughly seventy-years of age and wearing a shoal, was glaring at me through my window. Her eyes were dull agates. She looked like a dead wasp, vindication in a glance!

  I might’ve pissed my pants. I was so terrified and angry, I jumped off the couch and tromped to the door, pulling it violently open. I stuck my head into the cold November night.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  She cowered at me, not shivering in the cold. She wasn’t scared. She did not run away or reply, just stood there, turning to me with her black eyes, wearing a thick, wool, old-lady’s coat and black, buckled shoes.

  “You know, I deserve some privacy, too!” I said, angrily. “I’m getting tired of this! Maybe I’ll write a story about a guy who kills the entire town while they’re sleeping and washes his face in some old lady’s blood. How’s that for business? You’ll think some pretty thoughts then when you wake up with a sharp knife sticking out of your epiglottis!”

  Maybe that wasn’t the best thing I could’ve said, but she only stood there anyway, glaring at me like she wanted to roast me alive. Finally, she spoke, a haggard, gravely voice, stern and authoritative at the same time:

  “We know all about you, mister,” she said, shaking an old, crooked finger at me. “You’ll get yours. That’s certain.”

  She did frighten me because she giggled like a schoolgirl. She turned and walked away, looking at me over her shoulder with a malicious glare. Had she come all this way—from wherever she’d come from—just to relay this message?

  Going back inside, the chill going straight to my bones, I picked the book up and tried to read, but it was no use.

  Maybe I should get out of here. What good could possibly come of this?

  But I couldn’t. I wanted to win this fight. That’s what Red says. Just win, says Red. Don’t let the sonsabuggers get you.

  Red is an old friend, and I listen to what he has to say. We’ve talked on the phone a lot since I’ve moved, and I write letters to him. Red has been one of my best friends since the third grade. I wonder what he would do in this situation. Maybe I’ll call him and ask.

  A few days went by and my landlady came knocking on the door, Mrs. Higglesby. She asks (get this) if it wouldn’t be too much trouble finding another place to live?

  “Why the hell should I care where you live, lady?” I said.

  She shook her head. No no no. She was talking about me. I’m bringing more attention to the complex than she appreciates.

  “What attention?” I asked.

  “The attention you’re bringing to the University Manor,” she says. (Another equally elegant name. This place is just full of originality, I swear to God!)

  Did I get mad? Was I hot under the collar? Well, maybe a little…

  I
almost slapped her. I felt like it, wanted to. Wanted to run her face across a rusty cheese-grater.

  Which brings us to Act II, because you know what happened then, right?

  The Idledale Post was on my porch the next morning announcing the murder of forty-year resident of Idledale, Colorado, Mrs. Higglesby. She’d been the landlord of University Manor for twenty-seven years. She was a member of the Girly Girls Society and Homemade Pies for Neighborly Awareness. She was an icon to the community. She had no surviving members of her family.

  Someone had snuck into her apartment and stabbed her to death.

  I think Ricky’s doing it. I think he’s jealous of my story and is trying to ruin my life, or at least drive me out of town. It’s the only thing I can think of!

  The University Manor was soon bombarded with sirens, an ambulance, several police cars, gawking neighbors, passersby, and a few dogs and cats. They hauled Mrs. Higglesby’s body, cocooned in black plastic, into the back of the ambulance. The police questioned me because someone saw me having a dispute with her the day before. You can’t trust anybody in this town.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  The officer stared at me. I could see it in his piggish eyes. He was one of them.

  “Kill my landlady because she didn’t like me? I think there are better ways to solve a problem than that, officer.”

  He looked at me for a long time, thinking of a reason to drag me in. I was surprised he didn’t. I thought it was funny.