“That guy’ll be dead soon,” David said spitefully after the meeting. On the flight home, David kept talking about Herman’s nicotine-stained fingertips and shortness of breath. “Don’t ever smoke, Alex.” David gripped Alex’s face and twisted it toward him. “I mean it. Smoking will kill you, just like it will kill that fat agent.”
Alex grinned at the memory, lit a cigarette, and read the letter.
My dear friend Alex:
How good to hear from you! I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw the outline from you, but then I remembered: you’re a special case. Why should I be surprised? I’ve occasionally wondered about you and what you were doing. I even planned to call you once, but I had a heart attack that very afternoon—I kid you not! And that afternoon was three years ago! I decided you were bad luck, and that I should wait for you to call me (just kidding. I was ordered to not engage in any business lest I suffer stress, and unfortunately as I’ve grown older I get so agitated over anything). I’ve just gotten back in a workaday routine in the last eight or nine months.
I’m intrigued by your proposal, and I enjoyed your sample chapters. Actually, parts are as polished as a final draft. You’ve still got the knack, my boy, of writing some major league work! Some problems, to be sure (seems the doctor’s business would not suffer because of his mishap—as a revived corpse, would not the desperately ill seek him out?) but I don’t think they are serious and we can work out the thematic kinks and blind spots, of which there are very few to be sure. Send me the manuscript when it’s done. Can you get it done in six months? Good, I thought you could.
I won’t kid you. Your career does not exist. You will be, as far as publishers are concerned, almost a new author. But such matters are trivial. I’m so pleased you’ve fought bravely against schizophrenia. You’re something of a miracle, my boy. Some schizophrenics suffer debilitating language deterioration as they get older—but then again, you’re not really old yet, are you? And as I asserted earlier, you’re a special case certainly.
Cheers,
Herman
Alex carefully folded the letter and placed it in his file cabinet. Now he needed blood for energy, blood for endurance, blood for concentration. Edward Head’s blood. After he had the blood in capsules, Alex could fly through the manuscript.
He lit another Dunhill and decided to celebrate Herman’s letter by writing a page or two. He looked on his desk in the den, but the manuscript was not there. It was not in the living room or bathroom.
Jimmy held his breath when he heard the rattling of the janitor’s keys. What was he doing here now? Jimmy wondered. He should be in the other suite. Jimmy cursed silently and scrambled beneath Alex’s desk.
The light came on and footsteps approached the desk.
“I’ll be damned,” a voice said. “There you are, right where I left you.” When he realized the voice was Alex Resartus’s, Jimmy clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and silently prayed: Please God, protect me from this jackass. I need to graduate, and I won’t graduate if I get caught in this office at 11:30 p.m. Professors aren’t that understanding.
Alex frowned at the papers scattered on his desktop. He never left papers scattered on his desk. No matter how many he had, he forced himself to sort them carefully and place them in neat stacks. Without this habit, Alex would never find anything.
“Who the hell do they hire these day!” Alex yelled. He never did like the janitor for this building: ponytailed little twerp, blue shirt bunched around his waist and pants sliding down his hips. He always left the wastepaper basket by the door, and Alex liked it next to his desk. “Can’t do the simplest goddamn things right!” He struck the desktop, and the computer monitor did a little dance.
Alex gathered his manuscript, put the wastepaper basket by his desk, and slammed the door.
Jimmy trembled under the desk for ten minutes before gathering the nerve to move. His neck and back were stiff, and he stood up slowly. He swore when he felt something wet.
He had pissed his pants.
Red-faced and wet-crotched, he cracked open the office window and smoked. After five cigarettes, he was calm enough to think about walking to the frat house. He double-checked for cigarette ashes. When his nerves failed him, he had one more cigarette. The lit end of the cigarette fell to the desk and landed atop a sheet of paper. Jimmy instantly flicked the ash with his middle finger. It rolled, a tiny ember, across the desk and disappeared over the edge.
Keys jangled outside the door.
Jimmy had called Holly Tuesday morning and told her to meet him in the union. He sounded upset and refused to talk over the phone.
He sat in the corner, back to the windows. Shoulders hunched and hair uncombed, he looked hungover. He did not look at her when she sat down.
“Hi.”
“You won’t believe what happened to me last night.”
“Then don’t bother telling me.”
“I have to.” He looked forlornly at his coffee cup.
“Cut the drama.” Her heart was racing. She wanted to pull Jimmy’s hair and slap the pout off his little face.
“I was in the office last night, looking for the test. I heard some keys jangling. You know, like on a key ring. I hid under the desk and who comes in but Resartus. He was looking for something, too.”
Holly ordinarily would have enjoyed the image of Jimmy Stubbs trembling under a desk. But not today. She was tense, waiting to hear what she dreaded: I told him you’re in on it.
“What did he say?”
“To me?”
“No, to the walls, you little piss ant.”
“What a partner in crime you’ve turned out to be.” Jimmy looked at Holly with disdain, paused to light a cigarette. “Well, to the walls he said something like, ‘Goddammit, who works around here,’ and ‘I’ll rip off his face,’ or ‘I’ll stuff him into the goddamned wastepaper basket. Maybe he’ll put it in the right place.’ He hit the desk, too.”
“He didn’t hit you?” She hoped so.
“No. He didn’t see me.”
“He didn’t see—then what happened?”
“Just what I said.” He cackled. “He was looking for something, and I guess he was mangled at the janitor. He seemed really mangled about the wastepaper basket being in the wrong place. You know, just stupid stuff like that.”
“I should slap the butt off your face for scaring me like that!”
“And just as I was about to leave, I heard the key ring again, but it was the janitor. He was swearing, too. ‘Who does he think he is?’ and ‘I’ll tell him to kiss my ass’ and so on. I thought, ‘I’m screwed!’ but he only straightened Resartus’s desk and emptied the wastepaper basket. Resartus must have yelled at him about cleaning better.”
Jimmy took a long pull on his cigarette and performed a parlor trick: exhaling the smoke through one nostril then the other.
“That was a nice little adventure, but we still need the test. The final exam is on Thursday. That’s the day after tomorrow, in case you’ve lost your calendar.”
Jimmy inserted the cigarette into his left nostril. “I’ve got the test.” The cigarette tip glowed, and smoke streamed from his right nostril.
“Sure. The janitor gave it to you, right?”
“Sort of.” Jimmy removed a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. “When the janitor straightened up the desk, he must have re-arranged the papers or something. The funny thing is that I messed up the desk. I’d just started looking through the papers, then decided to look in the wastepaper basket when Resartus came in.”
Jimmy removed the cigarette from his left nostril and inserted it into the right. “Anyway, there it was on top of the desk. I helped myself to a blank sheet of paper and copied it.”
“You’re a genius.”
“Don’t I get a thank you?”
Holly’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you.”
“Now we’re in a pact. We have to seal the pact by—”
“Fat chance,” Holly blurt
ed.
“—by sharing a cigarette.” Jimmy removed the cigarette from his nostril and held it, little finger extended, in front of Holly.
“I will not.”
“Then you won’t see the test.”
Holly wanted to scream. But before she could sicken herself with the thought, she took the cigarette.
She coughed and gagged, but she finished the cigarette.
“Want to study together?” Jimmy asked. He had been daydreaming about an all-night study session: Holly yawns, stretches, and rests her head on Jimmy’s lap. Jimmy gently changes positions and rests his head between her breasts.
“No.”
He snorted like a petulant twelve-year-old.
She did not look up from the test, but she pointed at her notebook. “You can copy my notes, though.”
“You’re a real bitch sometimes.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
Edward had hoped to find Holly in the union, trying to bum class notes from more serious students. He wanted to follow up on their phone conversation and make sure she was attending his party. He had not expected to see her sitting with Stubby Jimmy.
Then it made sense: Stinking Jim had locked Edward in his apartment; Stinking Jim had turned off his power and re-routed his mail; Stinking Jim had sent him the lesbian porno. Edward wanted to punch him. But then again, Jimmy was dealing Holly just as he was dealing Holly. Each used any available advantage. All’s fair, etc.
What the hell? he thought. Why not invite him to the party and turn the tables on him?
Coffee cup in hand, Edward strode to the table.
Holly saw him approaching. She quickly folded the test and slipped it into a textbook.
Jimmy groaned as Edward pulled up a chair.
“It’s you,” Jimmy remarked.
“Indeed.” Edward glanced at the notes. “Buckling down for Resartus’s test?”
“No,” Jimmy said. “This stuff is just so interesting that we study it for fun.”
“A scholar!”
“Enough, you guys.” Holly tried to sound irritated. She enjoyed the sniping: Edward and Jimmy were like two inept roosters strutting to impress the hen.
“I suppose you’re ready for the test,” Jimmy said to Edward.
“Pretty much.”
He winked at Holly. “Quick, Jimmy. What author made stream of consciousness a credible technique?”
To hide his ignorance, Jimmy played dumb. “What’s the name of that river, I mean stream?”
“Out of time!” Edward imitated the electronic buzzer on a game show and turned to Holly. “The answer?”
“Stop,” Holly whined. “I’m not ready for this.”
“Give us the answer,” Jimmy ordered.
“I’ll tell you Saturday night.”
“Saturday?”
“I’m having a party Saturday night, and you’re invited.”
Holly raised her eyebrows.
“The exam’s on Thursday,” Jimmy sneered. “Saturday’s a little late for the answer.”
“If I tell you, will you come to my party? Holly’s coming, aren’t you?”
Jimmy glared at Holly. “You are?”
“Sure. It’s fun to kick back and enjoy a few brews. Besides, the last big frat parties are Friday night.”
Edward ignored the barb. “Bring a friend along. I’m supplying the liquor.”
Jimmy accepted the invitation. “Now tell me who the author is.” When Holly snickered at his bad manners, Jimmy did his best to smile without sarcasm.
“Thanks for the invite. I’ll even bring a bottle. Now please tell me.”
“Ross Perot.”
“You’re a sport, Ed Head,” Jimmy smiled.
Edward nodded and left the table. He had to invite two more guests.
Chapter Twenty Eight: Joyride
Alex was laboring over a chapter of My Life as a Dead Man when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch: quarter to eleven. Who would call at this hour?
“Professor Resartus?” The voice was hard with anxiety.
“I think so.”
The laughter was forced, but Alex recognized the voice: the voice of his Savior.
“This is Edward Head. I’m in your 2:00 modern literature course.”
“I agree. Do you need an extension on the final paper?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m calling to invite you to a party. A little gathering to celebrate the end of the school year.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” Alex rarely received such invitations, which suited him. But his instincts told him to accept. Fate was dealing Alex a full house. He only had to play his hand shrewdly. “When do these festivities begin?”
“Saturday at eight thirty. Nothing elaborate. Just a few people.” Edward could not truthfully call his guests “friends.” Perhaps after the party.
“Good. I prefer small groups.”
“Then you’ll come?”
“I’d be honored.”
“Great. I’ll give you directions after the final exam.”
“On Wednesday.”
“On Thursday,” Edward gently corrected.
“Of course. I guess I’ve been working too hard.”
“Yes, professor.” Edward remembered Alex’s minor breakdown in front of Claire and him. “I look forward to seeing you Saturday.”
“And I you.”
Alex thought longingly of Edward Head’s blood. He needed a plan, and he needed it now. His months of scheming were coming to a head. After an hour of pacing and planning, he was tired. He needed inspiration.
He went for a drive.
By 12:45 a.m., Alex had found a target. A new Holiday Inn had been built across town, off 1-55, and the cocktail lounge was already popular. Alex parked at the farthest end of the lot, hidden from view by two dumpsters.
A red pick-up looked interesting, but the door was locked. Alex did not want to risk forcing the car open because it was too close to the entrance. He scanned the other cars.
A new Camaro caught his eye. Alex approached casually. A lovely break, he thought: the driver’s side door was open.
He crept into the back and got as comfortable as he could, hunched over behind the front seat. He waited. With nothing else to do, he resumed thinking of ways to murder Edward Head.
A half a pack of cigarettes later, the driver’s door swung open and the driver hesitated—Alex wondered if the driver had somehow seen him. Then Alex heard the scratchings of a stubborn match. A man eased into the car, cigarette in mouth. He won’t even notice all my cigarette smoke, Alex thought.
But he did.
“Son of a bitch! Caught you in the act!”
Alex smiled dumbly, as if only half-aware that he was caught.
“You made a big mistake.” The driver slapped his thigh, as if enjoying a joke. He reached over and pulled up the car thief by the hair. “My name’s Wayne,” the man announced. “I’m takin’ you to the police station. But first I’m gonna pound the shit out of you.”
Wayne‘s right hand nearly encircled Alex’s neck.
“Christ, you’re strong!” Alex remarked. Wayne‘s forearm was thick as a thigh.
“State lifting champ, 1995. I coach at IllinoisState part-time.” With a grunt, he pulled Alex halfway over the seat.
Alex was amused. Wayne‘s strength gave him a hint of what his own victims must feel.
“I’ve never lifted weights,” Alex admitted.
“I believe it, you skinny shit. I don’t think you could pop a grape.” Wayne pulled Alex further. Alex’s face was soon on the floor, and his trunk and legs were draped awkwardly across the passenger seat.
“Do you have a gun or knife?” Wayne demanded.
“No, but you can frisk me.”
“Are you a faggot?” Wayne roared.
“Afraid to frisk me?”
Wayne started the car and raced the engine dramatically. Over the roaring of the engine, he yelled at Alex. ‘“I’m not gonna take you to the police,
you pussy. I’m gonna take you for a rougher ride.” He raced out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
Alex pulled himself upright. He settled into the passenger seat and put a cigarette in his mouth. “Got a light?”
“Shut up!”
Wayne slapped Alex, but Alex only smiled, then casually depressed the car’s cigarette lighter. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard until the lighter popped back, then lit the cigarette and stared at Wayne.
“What the hell are you looking at?”
“At the chest hair that curls over your tee shirt,” Alex laughed.
“Keep laughin’, faggot. Just wait.” Wayne drove alertly, with his left hand on the wheel and his right hand gripping Alex’s collar.
Three miles later, Wayne exited. He turned right and followed a pothole filled dirt road, then suddenly turned left onto a goat path. He drove for a mile and a half down a long-abandoned utility service road. Several times, Wayne gripped Alex’s collar harder; he was certain that Alex would panic and attack, or try to flee.
Wayne eased to a stop beside a scum-covered pond. On the pond’s weed-covered shore were several rusted “Polluted—No Swimming” signs.
“Get out of the car, faggot.”
“What’s with all this ‘faggot’ stuff?”
Wayne ignored him and pointed at the pond. The moon’s reflection had all the greasy colors of an oil slick. “Back in high school, the faggots used to come out here and blow each other. One time a bunch of us on the football team came out here. We made the faggots get on their hands and knees, then we beat ‘em like drums.” He smiled at the memory. “Ever since then, I don’t think anybody’s used this pond for anything but dumping.”
Alex yawned.
“Two of those faggots tried to get away. They came runnin’ up the hill—” Wayne nodded toward a grade thick with weeds—”and got into the car. I about shit. But we lucked out because the faggots’s car wouldn’t start!”
“Lucky break,” Alex noted.
“And tonight, my loose-assed friend, we are going to re-create that fine evening.”
Alex smiled through the smoke of another cigarette. “I can tell that night was the highlight of your high school career. Life has just never measured up since that night, has it?”
A Self Made Monster Page 18