A Self Made Monster

by Steven Vivian

  “Faggot car thieves shouldn’t talk so much. What were you gonna do, drive my car down to Key West and live on the beach with your boyfriends all summer?” Wayne slapped Alex hard, and his hand tingled with satisfaction.

  “Ouch,” Alex offered.

  Offended by Alex’s nonchalance, Wayne raised his fist. But before he could launch the blow, Alex slapped him. A sharp schopp! filled the car. Wayne grunted with surprise. The slap hurt.

  Wayne swung as hard as he could. Alex did not try to move, and as the blow landed Wayne thought, This dick smoker is out cold!

  The blow landed. Nothing happened.

  Wayne stared. Alex returned the stare, eyes glassy with the excitement of the impending kill.

  “You’re high on some kind of dope, my friend,” Wayne said, but the bravado had drained from his voice.

  “Ever been fisted?”

  Wayne tried to open the door, but Alex slapped him again. Wayne raised his hands, but he could not block the blows that tore through his inexplicably feeble guard. Wayne could not find his voice to even yell or plead. Or maybe he was screaming and could not hear over the slaps and the pain. He heard only the deafening blows—the sound penetrated his skull, which suddenly felt paper-thin.

  He managed to open the door, falling out of the car onto the weeds and dirt. He lie on his back, staring at the stars. The stars were bright, a thousand suns.

  Alex gripped Wayne’s skull and twisted.

  The thousand suns were gone. Wayne’s face was mashed into the dirt and weeds. The sensations bewildered him: lying on his back, his face on the ground, he felt his spine twisting and splintering. He tried to move but could move only his toes.

  Alex spoke to the back of Wayne’s head. “Before I kill you, I want to thank you. You’ve really helped me with something. Damn it, are you listening?”

  Wayne tried to nod.

  “When you told me about the car that wouldn’t start, you really gave me an idea.”

  Wayne tried to snort the dirt from his nostrils but found he had no air in his lungs.

  “I’ve been planning to kill somebody for quite a while, and the dead car is just the angle I need.” He twisted Wayne‘s head another 180 degrees.

  Wayne’s face was free from the dirt and weeds, which momentarily relieved him. The sky returned to view, but it had turned white, and the thousand suns were black. They grew in diameter, overlapped, and blocked out everything.

  Alex parked Wayne’s car on the far side of Holiday Inn lot, far from other cars and out of view of the lobby entrance. He strode to his car, whistling “On Blueberry Hill”. A couple staggered out of the lounge. They did not look up as Alex got into his car and drove away.

  The night air was exhilarating, sweet with spring’s bloom. Alex honked at a young couple walking hand in hand down the sidewalk. They waved back. Sometimes, Alex thought, the world and its inhabitants are interesting, even enjoyable. He took advantage of the stoplight to grin at himself in the rear view mirror. His reflection grinned back and ran its tongue across its bloody front teeth.

  Chapter Twenty Nine: In Your Pink Sissy Pants

  Edward rose from his book-littered kitchen table and dialed again. He had been trying every half-hour, but the line was always busy.

  And it was busy again.

  Who could she be talking to? he wondered. Probably nobody. She was probably busy with books and notes. Between working and studying, Claire had little time for small talk. Especially with me, Edward thought. But Edward did not taunt himself. He had made a pact with himself: no more taunts, no more self-torture. After four years of textbooks, coffee, porno tapes and handjobs, Edward was ready to grip flesh other than his own: he had made a promise to himself, and it was time to act, not whine.

  He pushed his literature notes away for a moment and, in a mood of pleasant indulgence, tried to rank Claire and Holly. Who was best? He would take whoever was willing, but what if his plans went beyond his most glorious hormonal dreams? What if he had to choose between them?

  Edward guessed that Holly’s body was more sexed-up. He recalled Holly’s high saddle, shrink-wrapped in bicycle shorts. He could probably bounce a quarter off her buttocks. And despite Holly’s hot-jock pose, Edward bet she wore the frilliest underwear. He imagined peeling off her shorts. She would stand over him, swigging beer and singing with the rock and roll record as he sniffed her pink satin.

  Or maybe she just wore bikini panties—preferably watermelon pink.

  Then again…whose body was more elegant than Claire’s? A creamy, gently sloping belly. Breasts that stayed round when Claire was on her back. Inner knees hooking around your arms, ankles bumping your ears…

  Edward dialed Claire’s number again. His heart raced when he heard a ring instead of a busy tone, but nobody answered.

  “Please. I’ve got to study.” Holly extended her middle finger at the phone.

  “So do I!” Jimmy exclaimed. “Listen, I got a copy of the test for us, right?”

  Holly re-thrust the middle finger.

  “Right?”

  “Don’t go poo-poo in your pink sissy pants.”

  “The least you can do is take twenty minutes and give me some information from your notes.”

  “I did! You’ve called six times in the last three hours.”

  “Some gratitude.”

  “Do you know where my middle finger is?”

  “In your nose?”

  “Fine, fine. What do you need to know?”

  For the seventh time, Jimmy asked questions. And for the seventh time, Holly’s answers made little sense. They made little sense because Jimmy understood neither the professor’s questions or Holly’s notes, and Holly understood neither the professor’s questions or her notes. She read her notes almost randomly, hoping to stumble into understanding.

  “You don’t know much more of this crap than me!”

  “I would if you’d leave me alone to study!”

  “Call him!”

  “No.”

  “You’ve got to, or we’ll both fail?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know I’ve got the original grade sheet? The one with your name followed by a bunch of failing grades?” Jimmy smiled at her silence. He felt powerful, as he did when he stepped on insects. She hung up, but he did not get angry. He knew she would call him.

  “Hi Edward. It’s Holly.”

  “Really?” Edward blushed. He had been imagining Holly on all fours. He was kneeling behind her, teasing her cleft with hand and mouth. He turned and winked at his video camera.

  “Sorry to bother you, but—”

  “Not at all.”

  “—I’m just a little stuck on a couple things from Resartus’s class.”

  “What’s the question?” he asked professorially.

  “Uh, there’s something in my notes,” she fumbled, looking at the test. “I mean something I remember Resartus talking about, and it’s about the connection between, of the connection of World War I and the pessimism of modern literature.”

  “Oh sure.” Edward’s answer took fifteen minutes, and Holly scribbled quickly, occasionally muttering an intelligent “Uh huh.” She did not dare pause to shake out her writer’s cramp.

  “That’s really a help, Edward,” she enthused as Edward concluded his answer.

  “Anytime.”

  He waited for the next question.

  “Well, there’s just one other thing I’m confused about.” Her question took five minutes, and it made no sense.

  “Are you asking about Irish nationalism in British literature?”

  She looked at the test question: “Discuss the significance of Irish nationalism in British literature.”

  “Well I, yeah I am.”

  His answer took twenty minutes, and she scribbled each word. Edward knew she was scribbling, so he kindly slowed down near the end of his answer.

  Chapter Thirty: Final Rehearsals

  The students were tense. Those who had often skipp
ed class knew they were doomed, and they stared into space with the stoicism of a criminal awaiting sentencing. Three members of the baseball team sat in a corner, skimming notes they had bought from a member of the swim team. The swimmer had dropped the class five weeks ago, so the notes were incomplete, but the ball players could not tell.

  Holly and Jimmy glanced at one another and nodded. At 7:00 a.m., Jimmy had pounded on Holly’s door. Holly answered in a sweat-soaked tee shirt and shorts; she had been doing pushups with the notes between her hands. Jimmy demanded they write the answers before taking the test.

  Holly hesitated, and Jimmy smacked his forehead with an open palm. “What’s the worry? We have the test, and we’ve gone over the questions enough to make me puke. Let’s get the answers done now.”

  To cool off, Holly grasped the bottom of her tee shirt and shook it back and forth. Jimmy glanced at her belly: flat, flush, shiny.

  “Just take off your clothes and do your jumping jacks, why don’t you.” Her display of flesh irritated Jimmy. Bitches that tease, he believed, should at least give a finger fuck.

  She glanced at her desk clock. “I guess we’ve got time. How do you want to divide up the work?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you want to take every other question, or do you want the first half, or what?”

  “You just don’t know how to take advantage of this. We’ll both do all the questions. We’ve got time. Then we’ll compare the answers, blend the information together, and have even better answers.”

  “So we’ll have identical answers. How will we explain that?”

  Jimmy had not considered that.

  “Let’s just both write our own answers. At least we can help each other out.”

  They finished at 1:45, fifteen minutes before the test. They slipped their answers in their notebooks. As the students wrote, Holly would write gibberish such as, “We’re smarter than all of you!” And when the students turned in their answers, Holly and Jimmy would turn in their pre-written answers.

  Alex entered the classroom, tests in one hand and coffee cup in another. He stood in front of his students and did a little bow. “I hope you’re looking forward to the test, and I hope you all do well.”

  A few of the students managed to lift their eyebrows; most stared straight ahead. Edward nodded vigorously. Though he had gotten all “A“‘s, Edward had studied hard. He wanted to write a perfect test.

  Alex felt terrific. Wayne the weight lifter must have had an expensive vitamin and mineral habit, or perhaps a steroid fetish. Alex had bench-pressed his couch this morning, and then his refrigerator. He always could have, of course, but he had never before thought of it. The mastery of weight was exciting. Alex even tossed the fridge into the air several times, as a child tosses a ball into the air.

  Seeing the students’ anxious faces, Alex could not resist. The students needed some levity. Alex dropped to his knees and, gripping the desk corner with his teeth, lifted his desk into the air. With a jerk of his head, he tossed the desk from his mouth to his left hand. He lightly tossed the desk back and forth, from hand to hand. A few students chuckled, but most were alarmed. Edward broke the tension by applauding. With a flourish, Alex tossed the desk into the air, caught it with one hand, and gently set it back on the floor.

  “You folks are too serious,” Alex said. “You’re about to take an exam, not be murdered.”

  The students stared at him, stunned, as he handed out copies of the test.

  Alex worked on his manuscript while the students perspired over their tests. He occasionally looked up to gauge their progress. Several students were writing quickly, chewing their lower lips. A fat kid flexed his fleshy forehead as a body builder flexes his biceps. Some students had given up and rested their heads on folded arms.

  The fourth chapter of My Life as a Dead Man was going well; Dr. Dave had crawled from the grave and resumed his practice. All his patients, save the elderly, had abandoned him. The elderly begged him for his secret. He shrugged. He did not have a secret, but he recommended lots of fiber. The IRS was upset: it could not collect income tax from a dead man, yet there he was, earning income and not paying taxes. A liberal Democrat was courting Dr. Dave to join the party. The Democrats, explained the politician, protected all oppressed people, including the deceased.

  Alex was writing the first confrontation between Dr. Dave and his mother—she was hoping he would take over her house payments—when the first tests were turned in. Alex glanced at his watch. It was already 3:30. Only twenty more minutes.

  Jimmy was among the first to turn in the test, and he waited for Holly to finish her letter to a friend. He stood outside the classroom, blowing his cigarette smoke at the “No Smoking” sign.

  Jimmy got impatient and glanced into the classroom. Holly was at Alex’s desk. She was performing her Coy School Girl routine: hands clasped behind her back, head lowered, one foot gracefully tracing a circle in front of the other. Coeds sure have it easy, Jimmy mused. They can blame failure on sexism. Or they can turn it all around by acting weak, and expect a favor.

  Edward Shithead joined Holly and Alex. Feeling left out, Jimmy entered the room. He wanted to join in the witty banter, but he did not know what to say.

  “I appreciate the consideration,” Holly said.

  “Not at all,” Alex said. “Excellent students earn a little consideration.”

  “See you Saturday,” Edward concluded. Alex nodded crisply and returned to his work.

  “Coffee’s on me,” Edward announced.

  “Then wipe it off,” Jimmy snapped.

  Claire was anxious, and she wished she had never called Edward last night. But she felt at her wit’s end. She had always submitted to men’s wishes: her father’s, then her ex-husband’s. The result was always disaster. She had just started living for her own happiness, and she would not stop now.

  When she saw Edward enter the union with two other students, her anxiety rose and her resolve plummeted. How could she talk frankly in front of strangers?

  Edward acted nonchalant. He waved casually at Claire and led Holly and Jimmy to Claire’s table.

  “Claire Sweet, this is Holly Dish and Jimmy Stubbs.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Claire said. She felt herself slipping into her chronic pleasantness. She would smile beautifully, listen politely, and speak courteously. And she would say nothing to Edward; he would still nurse the pathetic fantasy that she was interested in him.

  Predictably, Claire charmed everyone. Even Jimmy found no fault in her—how could he? She was lovely. She listened to him as if he were worth listening to. And Holly, normally jealous toward willowy figures, found herself liking Claire. Edward reveled in his sudden importance. As the talk progressed, he became fully professorial. Words such as “context,” “world view,” “deconstruction,” and “ideology” rolled off his tongue.

  Some time later, Claire found herself saying “Nice to have met you” to the departing three. She was exhausted and wanted to sleep for three days. She wanted freedom from her sickening pleasantness. She slapped her empty coffee cup from the table, and it careened off the wall. Christ, it felt good to be by herself and to hit something.

  Then he was back, standing over her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Her drawl was weary, as if powered by fading batteries. Please just leave, she wanted to say. Please just leave forever.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Edward placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of her. “Thank you,” she said thickly, trying to sound appreciative. She avoided his gaze, but he was persistent. She turned away, and he moved to the other side of the table to be nearer to her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked for the sixth time.

  “Please just leave me alone.” She made herself look at him.

  Edward’s hopes increased. Could it be, he bravely wondered, that Claire was jealous of Holly? That Claire feared Edward had given her up for Holly? He pushed the ide
a aside even as he savored it.

  “I’m sorry, but I think I’ve got something to do with you feeling bad.” Edward remembered not to grin. It was hard—everything was working out so goddamned well!

  “Sort of.” How could this kid understand that he simply had a foolish crush on her? “But it’s more than you. It’s—” She looked away. “I need some time just to myself. I’d rather not talk about it, really.”

  A thrill shot through Edward’s heart. She really did want him! He wanted to bring her hand to his mouth. The drama of the situation became cinematic, and Edward the aspiring movie director imagined what should come next:

  Edward: “We’ve been hiding our attraction for a long time.”

  Claire: (Now resting her head on his shoulder) “A long time.”

  Edward: (Resting his hand on her lap) “Our lives are going in different directions, Claire. It’s sad, but it’s happy too.”

  Claire: “What should we do?”

  Edward (Caressing her thigh) “I’m with Holly too, so I know you can’t put up with that forever, but—” (Claire submits to desire by closing her eyes, leaning against Edward, and squeezing his probing hand between her thighs).

  Claire: “But?”

  Edward: “We can be together for one night.”

  Claire: (Pushing herself against him) “Let’s do it.”

  Edward: “You mean—”

  Claire: “Shank me, Edward.”

  Edward fidgeted while Claire looked away.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it…” Edward said softly.

  “Not right now.” He’s so goddamned dumb, Claire thought. I’ve dropped enough hints and he still comes sniffing around.

  “Okay. I won’t push it. But when you said on the phone last night that you wanted to talk to me, I thought it had something to do with us.”

  Claire said something, but Edward did not understand because her hand was over her mouth.

  “What did you say?”

  “It has a little to do with us, but it has more to do with me,” she repeated listlessly.

  Maybe, Edward thought, she feels inadequate. Being older but a freshman. Divorced, starting a new life—maybe she thinks I won’t accept her.