by Edward Lee
Incomprehension notwithstanding, that was pretty much it for Officer Ryan. Eviscerated now, he lay dying, blood seeping freely from his calamitous wound. Were mites roving in the blood? Everything had happened so fast, his mind couldn’t even attempt to calculate any of it. A clawed hand pulled the wad of cash from his pocket—the crack money he’d gotten from Dutch—but then he heard a guttural sputter. “These ain’t Hellnotes! Fuck! What am I gonna do with this shit? Wipe my ass?” Footsteps plodded off.
Next, Ryan was being dragged away by someone—er, well, someone wasn’t exactly accurate. It was actually a female Ghoul, sleek in her nutmeg-colored skin, lissome and even voluptuous, pert breasts like hard fruit on the slat-ribbed chest. She looked back at him with sparkling, billiard-ball-sized tourmaline eyes, then frowned. “I’d eat you myself but I’ll get more money for your meat at a Pulping Station.”
Ryan still didn’t understand. In the real world and in this hideous nightmare as well, it seemed that nobody cared about anything but money.
Wind gusted off the bay, blowing vast holes in the noxious smoke, and the last visual image to register in Ryan’s mind was a glimpse of downtown Dannelleton: the town square, the city hall, the quaint cafes and bistros and the shell shop and the German bar where he’d slammed down many a stein of Bitburger draft. It was all smoldering now, and behind it stood the grim gray skyscrapers which seemed to lean this way and that at the oddest angles.
This was a big problem.
There were no skyscrapers in downtown Dannelleton.
(II)
Walter popped the small almond-brown pills. No, he wasn’t committing suicide—he’d bought the shotgun for that, a beautiful brand-new Remington 870 pump. The pills were ferrous fumarate—a commonplace iron supplement—because Walter, according to the doctor that Colin had made him see, was slightly anemic. You could tell that just by looking at him. His red hair and already fair complexion seemed to drastically accentuate his stereotypical college-geek egghead never-get-out-in-the-sun-even-though-you-live-in-fucking-Florida pallor. Eighteen years old and gaunt as Ichabod Crane. Freckles. And no self-esteem. It didn’t matter that he had the highest I.Q. of anyone—including the senior professors—at the University of Southern Florida. His love was all that mattered, and that’s why he was about to kill himself.
Walter Grey didn’t have to live in the dorm room at Morakis Hall; his brother, Colin, would’ve put him up at a luxury condo right on the water if he’d wanted that, but Walter knew he had to adjust better socially. He wanted to meet people, be part of the “scene,” make friends and hang out. None of that had worked at first; Walter was a geek in every sense of the word and, hence, the object of every practical joke that college kids could conceive of. Dogshit in his sneakers, anole lizards on his cheeseburgers at the dining hall, Sudden Death hot sauce in his gym-class jock strap, water balloons full of molasses dropped on his head from the dorm windows when he was coming back from class. One night some of the guys on his floor had Krazy-Glued his physics books closed, just when Colin had walked in to see how things were going. Colin looked like a geek in the same way that Walter looked like a geek, but Colin didn’t give a shit. When you were a multi-millionaire, you didn’t have to. “Hey, ass-bags,” Colin had said to the perpetrators of Walter’s torment that night. “Anybody who fucks with my brother gets his ass kicked.” One of the students had challenged back at Colin’s frail physique: “Oh, yeah? By who? You?”
“No, not by me,” Colin informed him. “By these guys.” Then Colin’s hand gestured to the other gentlemen who’d just entered the dorm room after him: four very psychotic-looking bikers with a local motorcycle gang called The St. Pete Decapitators. One of them promptly punched a hole in the wall, as if on cue. Then another snapped open a ten-inch angel-blade. Did the knife’s edge have rust on it, or dried blood?
“Walter’s our friend,” he told the wiseacre student in a voice scorched by years of PCP-toking. “If you ever give him a hard time,” the biker grinned through black teeth, “I’ll cut your cock off and make your mama suck it.”
No one ever bothered Walter again. See, Colin merely hired the bikers to make his point—paying them quite well—and he’d hire them again if more severe services were ever needed. They never were.
But by the time that Walter realized he wasn’t likely to be socially accepted by anyone, he met Candice.
The girl of all my time-held dreams, he thought yearningly now, love in his heart and a 12-gauge pumpkin-ball in his hand.
Yes. Candice.
Adriatic-blue eyes, long blond hair down past her waist, five-foot-ten and a half. Beautiful as one of those bikini models in a hot rod mag. Candice was a general studies major and at age twenty-six could boast of being the oldest sophomore currently enrolled. Her parents were putting her through school—to help her find her true aptitudes, and to keep her shenanigans—and her physical body—out of their North Hampton, New York, beach mansion. In truth, though, her aptitudes were more oral than academic, as just about any male athlete at the school could attest, and damn near every male instructor. She knew, in fact, that if she really made the effort, she could probably fellate her way to a quicker graduation, but her view was: What’s the hurry? Even though Candice existed as the embodiment of every sexist cliche, she was quite happy with that lot. She loved it.
And Walter loved her. He truly believed in love at first sight because what else could these feelings be but love? He knew he loved her the instant he’d first seen her at the student lounge watching Hollywood Squares reruns instead of doing her homework. Walter had been having a Mountain Dew and whizzing through the day’s chapter on the molecular possession of cesium and its relation to low-ionization energy fields. It was a piece of cake. When he’d looked up, though, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his eighteen-year-old life was sitting at the same table, right across from him. She smiled at him—it was a distressed smile but a smile just the same—and then she pushed some of that shimmering blond hair back off her brow and said: “Hi.”
Walter nearly had a grand mal seizure when she’d said that single, simple word to him. Instantly he was sweating, shaking even, and when he opened his mouth to respond to her greeting, what came out sounded like, “Huh-huh-huh-huh—”
“My name’s Candice,” she told him next. “What’s yours?”
“Wuh-wuh-wuh-wuh—” Then he finally got it out. “Walter.”
She scratched her head, and pulled out a spiral notebook. “Damn, I got this take-home quiz, it’s due next period, and I just can’t remember! Isn’t math a bitch?”
“It‘s-it’s-it’s the only quantitative philosophy,” Walter spewed. “Math is the meaning of life.”
She giggled. It was the cutest giggle he’d ever heard. “Do you know a lot about math, Walter?”
“Yuh-yuh-yuh—”
“I just can never remember, damn it. The difference between Number Theory and Set Theory.”
Here was Walter’s chance to prove to this blond goddess that he was something more than a babbling putz. He could help her, couldn’t he? Her query grounded him; something snapped in his head like a switch. “Number Theory is the science of integers and how natural numbers relate to one another. Set Theory is the science of the interrelation of collections of numbers as basic number-systems.”
Another smile that made Walter want to melt. “You’re so smart! Could you say that a little slower so I can write it down?”
Instant confidence. They were relating to each other, via a common interest! Walter reached over and took her pad, and began to write down the needed definitions, and that was just the beginning.
The beginning, that is, of an all-too-typical form of exploitation: the age-old Case of the Buxom Blond Using the Egghead. For the rest of the next semester, Candice exploited poor Walter for what he had far more of than she: brains. Walter did her math homework and coached her for exams he’d already aced. In return, Candice would go out with him—to places where she
likely wouldn’t be seen by anyone she knew—and hold his hand. She loved County & Western; Walter would take her to concerts in one of Colin’s limos, and she loved big thick bloody steaks, so he’d take her to the best steak houses in Tampa. Afterwards, she’s always whisper sweet nothings to him. She had him hooked at once, and poor Walter was too naive to even suspect that he was being used. No, it couldn’t be that! Candice loved him! She’d told him so!
Even Colin warned him: “Buddy-bro, she’s a hosebag, she’s a ditz. The only reason she’s in college at all is because her parents told her unless she got a degree she’d lose the trust fund. She’s using you to do her fuckin’ class assignments.”
“She is not! She loves me!” Walter exploded back, outraged at such a cynical insulation. “You’re just jealous because it’s not you she’s going out with.”
Colin lit a cigarette and dismissively waved a hand. “I could shit care less about that floozy air-head. She’s a jock-girl, Walter. She’s not into eggheads like you. She goes out with the football team—the entire fucking football team.”
“She does not! Shut up!”
“Walter, don’t be a dickhead. Don’t let her pull the wool over your eyes. She’s not the kind of girl to fall in love with. I mean, if you’re getting it on with her, great. Be realistic and look at it that way—she’s fucking you in exchange for you doing her math.”
By now Walter’s face nearly matched the vibrant red of his hair. “That is NOT what’s going on! She’s my GIRLFRIEND! Or, at least, she will be soon. We’re kind of... casual now, but that’ll change any day.” Now Walter grinned, which looked ludicrous with his beet-red face. “She said she loves me.”
Colin just rolled his eyes, astounded by his brother’s ineptitude. “She’s duping you, Brother-bro. Girls like her do this to guys like you all the time. She knows that without you she’ll flunk her math class. She’s jacking you around.” Colin sputtered frustrated smoke into the air. “Well, she is a brick shit-house, I can’t deny that, and at least you’re getting it on with her. I mean ... right? Please don’t tell me you’re doing all that work for her and you’re not even getting laid.”
“Of course, I’m getting laid,” Walter lied. “What do you think I am, a moron?” In truth, there’d been a few times when Candice had plowed a few too many Bud Lights and had actually taken Walter back to her dorm for some whoopie. A charity fuck; Walter had done a lot for her, and what was another roll in the hay, especially after the entire football, basketball, lacrosse, and soccer teams, plus the wrestling squad—all weight classes? Candice could be very charitable when she was drunk enough. But wouldn’t you know it?
Walter couldn’t get it up.
Not even at the virile age of eighteen and being straddled by the living summation of female beauty. Walter’s crane would not rise. She’d of course sweetly consoled him with comforting words like, “Oh, honey, don’t worry, it happens sometimes” or “You’re just nervous, that’s all.” Stuff like that. Walter, indeed, was very nervous. This was his first time, blast it all. If there really was a God, He was having a big laugh. Walter wanted to lose his male virginity just like any male virgin wanted to, and to lose it with the girl of his dreams would’ve been even better. But, alas, all that he would lose on these nights was sleep.
“So,” Colin chided on. “You’re not getting laid.”
“Shut up!” Walter yelled back
“You’re doing all that work for her, and she’s not even hauling your ashes.”
“Be quiet!”
What was the use? Colin didn’t understand anything about love. He had all the women he wanted, and all of them were dancers at the local strip joint. Colin was just as nerdy looking as Walter, but the only difference between them was that it had been Colin, not Walter, who’d won the hundred million dollars in the state lottery.
Meantime, his love for her grew, as did the time he spent doing her assignments and prepping her for exams. Walter, in his eighteen-year-old romantic idealism, believed that he was in a budding relationship. And those guys he kept seeing her with? The jocks, the guys in letterman jackets, the football players who looked bigger than most compact cars? They were just friends of hers. Sure, girls had male friends. Nothing wrong with that. Just because they were opposite sexes didn’t mean something was going on. Right?
Just as Walter knew that an anomalus range of 2.5 to 8 electron volts was necessary to achieve plasmotic self-ionization, he knew that Candice loved him and would one day be his wife.
But back to that conversation he’d been having with his brother. Colin said: “Hey, did you hear the one about Candice robbing a bank? She tied up the safe and blew the guard!”
“Shut up!” Walter yelled while tapping out a quick paper on small energy loss during elastic collisions of electrons in magnetic fields.
“She doesn’t love you,” Colin reiterated.
“I’ll have you know that I have a date with her. Tonight.”
Colin smiled. “Oh, so she’s got another math assignment for you to do, huh?”
“No, she doesn’t. The date’s at her dorm, smart guy. She invited me over.”
“She’s got another math assignment for you to do...”
He’ll eat crow when Candice and I get married. Walter couldn’t wait. He looked at his watch. “See ya, Colin. I’ve got to be over there in ten minutes,” and then Walter headed for the door. As he left, Colin was just shaking his head, assuring his inept brother, “She won’t be there ...”
Candice wasn’t there. Walter had the girl at the dorm desk call up to Candice’s room ten times. “Walter,” the girl said, getting annoyed after the eighth or ninth time, “she’s not there.”
Walter considered every possibility. Of course, she was there—she said she’d be, she invited him over. There was no way that a girl as considerate as Candice would stand him up. Impossible... She took a nap and forgot to set her alarm. She had a late class. She lost track of time at the library. “Could you ring her room again, please?” Walter asked. “She was probably just taking a shower.” By now the desk girl was irate: “Walter, Jesus Christ. Candice has not been taking a shower for the last TWO HOURS!”
“Please?”
“All right, look. I’ll call one more time, and if she doesn’t answer, you’ll leave, right?”
“Okay,” Walter agreed because he knew in his heart that Candice would never treat him like this. She was just taking a long shower, he felt convinced. She’s there.
“Tenth ring,” the girl informed. “She’s not there. Now—go home!”
Walter was crushed and, as promised, he turned and left. He would’ve been even more crushed if he’d overheard what the desk girl said in the phone right after the door closed behind him. She said, “Thank God, he’s finally gone. Tell Bucky I said hi, Candice.”
Eventually, Walter’s dejection transformed into more denial. She was probably just real tired, from her classes. She’ll call tomorrow and apologize. Of course she will! She loves me! He meandered across campus, as night fell. Two jocks in letterman jackets passed without even noticing him. “You put the blocks to Candice yet?” one asked, and the other responded, after chuckling, “Couple nights ago after the finals mixer—shit. I didn’t just fuck her, I stuffed her like a turkey.”
“What a woman!”
“She’s like a machine you can’t turn off. Just fill her with beer and let ’er rip!”
Walter scowled at this rough talk, and certainly they weren’t talking about Candice—not his Candice. Some other girl named Candice, some jock tramp. When Walter turned the corner at Campus Drive, heading back to his own dorm, he spotted red and white lights flashing stroboscopically. Ambulance, he quickly realized. Then he saw cops and several tow trucks. Someone in a gold Dodge Colt had run the red light at the circle. Walter peered closer, then thought, Oh no ...
A pedestrian had been hit in the crosswalk, a philosophy student, no doubt. Spiral notebooks lay flapping in the street, along with copies of
Sartre’s No Exit and Soren Kierkegaard’s The Concept of Dread. A guy with glasses and a trimmed beard lay on an ambulance gurney, his neck obviously broken. Dead, Walter saw. He noticed the odd tattoo on the guy’s left arm: NARRATION IS MY ENEMY. No, Walter thought. Reckless drivers are. The two EMTs by his side didn’t even bother with CPR. The Colt had front-ended the flag pole in the center of the circle, a campus cop handcuffing the fat, inebriated driver. “Fuckin’ pedestrians, Jesus Christ, the guy just walked out in the middle of the street.”
“Yeah, because he had a walk light, asshole,” the cop said. “Thank God for the new drunk driving laws. Five years, no parole, on any DWI/vehicular manslaughter charge.”
As the EMTs scribbled on clipboards, Walter just kept staring at the dead guy on the gurney. His eyes were crossed, tongue hanging from an agape mouth. He wore a white t-shirt that read PIL: THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT, THIS IS WHAT YOU GET.
“Fuck, the shitface is gettin’ froggy with the cop,” one of the EMTs observed.
Walter looked over. The fat guy who’d been driving the car only had one wrist cuffed; now he was swinging at the cop with his other hand, shouting, “All I had was a couple of beers! I ain’t going to prison for five fuckin’ years!” and—SMACK!—the loose cuff hit the cop right in the face.
“Kid! Hold this for me!” the EMT said and slapped the clipboard into Walter’s chest. Walter took it, startled, as the two EMTs rushed the fat guy and aided the cop. The scuffle didn’t last long, but Walter, for a reason he couldn’t identify, couldn’t focus. He wasn’t watching the ruckus, he was looking at the dead man on the gurney.