Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1)

by J. Davis Henry

  A raven-haired woman I’d never seen before sat on my lap and let my hands explore discretely between her thighs under the table while we kissed. Her breath was hot on my ear and neck. My bulge became very noticeable. We scrambled out of the party for our own private midnight celebration.

  In bed, back at my apartment, we fumbled awkwardly despite our heat for each other. Nervously, she told me she was a virgin, and although scared, wanted to make love. I didn’t let on about my own inexperience but, making sure I didn’t make the same mistake I had with Maureen, guided myself between her legs while assuring her I had no problem waiting until she was ready. I poked at her as we prompted each other, until I slid into her wetness and warmth. She let out a slight squealing sound. Not sure what to do, not wanting to back out, I lay still on her. When she finally said she was okay, I slowly began to push deeper, then faster. She responded by wrapping her arms around me, her breath whistling and peeping loudly as she welcomed my thrusts until I burst inside her.

  “Happy New Year. Don’t get off me,” she said tenderly.

  “Okay, Tweety.” My mouth found one of her tits.

  “Tweety?”

  “Yes, you chirp while...” I fell asleep, lips on a nipple.

  When I awoke at dawn, she was gone. I checked the hallway and looked out the window to see if she was on the street. Not finding her, I climbed back into bed. Noticing a spot of blood on her side of the sheets, a stab of fear for her sliced through my drunken, stoned mind.

  Mid-morning, I finally pulled myself off my mattress and went into the bathroom. Remembering her name was Brenda, but I had nicknamed her Tweety, I wondered if I had embarrassed her or hurt her feelings. Flicking on the light, I sobered immediately. She had painted the outline of a small valentine on my mirror. With her blood.

  “What the... Christ, I don’t believe this. This chick is really weird.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I gasped, “Fucking nuts. Really weird,” when I found her underwear smeared with another heart-shaped blob of red in my top dresser drawer.

  Over the next few weeks, I would see Brenda in the bars once in a while but avoided her as I engaged and flirted with other women. When our eyes met across a room, she looked forlorn, and I knew by ignoring her I caused her pain. In those moments when I felt sorry for her or guilty or even thought I could probably get laid by her, I would remember the blood on the mirror or the panties and remind myself that I wanted to keep a barrier between us.

  One night, as I left the Blue Cat with Phuong to walk her home, I noticed Brenda watching us. She appeared fractured, like pieces of her had shattered with every look we shared since she had given me her virginity. Casting her eyes downward, she stared into her lap, softly stroking the crimson dress she wore.

  Outside, Phuong and I pushed ourselves through a sleeting rain.

  After Phuong let herself into her building, I walked on alone. As was my habit at night, I constantly checked my surroundings. The pelting, icy wetness made it impossible to see or hear well, but a creeping awareness along my spine told me someone was following me.

  It’s Brenda. It has to be her.

  Reaching a brightly lit corner, I stopped and called out into the dim areas that lay behind me. “C’mon, Brenda, I know you’re back there. Hey, walk with me. It’s safer.”

  Tortured by the cold, stalked by shadows, I fought against discomforting fears. Why would she follow me? I didn’t like the idea that somebody who had painted with blood on my mirror might be sneaking up on me. Or maybe it wasn’t her. I liked that thought even less, and hoped if anyone, better her than an unknown.

  “C’mon, Brenda, let’s talk.” My voice was quieter, faltering with doubt.

  Stinging darts of ice peppered my face. There was no one to be seen between the needles being hurled onto the pavement.

  A car crawled up a side street and stopped near me.

  “Is that you, Parker?”

  I made out Officer Al’s features through the police car’s rain-streaked, half-open window.

  “Yeah, how’re you doing?”

  “Everything all right here?”

  I paused, looked behind me. “Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

  Al turned his head, and I could hear a muttered exchange with his partner.

  He faced back to me and said half-laughingly, “It’s miserable out there, Parker. You’re going to get frostbite in those wet sneakers. You headed back to your place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hop in, we’ll give you a lift home.”

  Hunching over, trying to protect my face from the furious slash of cold, I looked back for Brenda once more. The storm hissed with menace, “Your pain is yet to come.” I heard it clearly—a split second before the wind and sleet seized me, throwing me off balance. I grabbed at the car door as my feet went out from under me. Attempting to escape the threat, I punched at the door handle and clambered in.

  Al shifted into gear, and I stuck my head up towards the front seat.

  “Al, could you turn here before we go on to my apartment?”

  “What’s going on, Deets?”

  “I’m not sure, I kind of got spooked. Thought somebody was following me.”

  “We’ll check it out.”

  Half a block away, the headlights of the patrol car caught a movement. Someone quickly entered a building, escaping the full glare of the overhead entrance light.

  Officer Jack said, “Looked like a woman.”

  Al replied, “Yeah, I thought I saw a skirt under that winter coat.”

  “It looked red.” I rolled down the window and made out the backlit shadow of a person standing motionless on the other side of the glass-door entranceway.

  “What? Why do you think it was red? It’s too dark to make out any color.” Jack was looking back at me.

  “Jack, he’s an artist—got those special eyes that see things we can’t.”

  “Bullshit. What are you up to this time, Parker? You sure got some peculiar night habits. Alleyways at three in the morning, standing on street corners in the middle of a winter storm.”

  “Want us to go check her out?” Al slowed to a complete stop.

  “No, no.” I sat back, thinking there was no way I believed Brenda lived in that building. I had hurt her enough. I didn’t want the police bothering her. “I’m pretty sure she’s a, uh, uh, an old girlfriend.”

  Al chuckled to himself. “What’d you do, Romeo? Break her heart?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Jack said flatly, “You okay with this, then, Parker?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Now I know it was her, uh, just going home.”

  They drove me to my apartment with Al going on about how much Janie loved the drawing of the vase with flowers. I told him she could see more of my art at the HooDoo Gallery and that I’d invite them to my opening in June.

  Chapter 27

  I disappeared from the cafes and clubs during the cold weeks that followed, concentrating on my illustrations. Tucked away in my three rooms, I found relief in not facing Brenda, though I dreaded she would show up at my door.

  Laying out my work and reviewing it, there were only six drawings I considered worth showing. I needed to pick up my pace to meet my quota for the deadline. Even with five months still to prepare, along with my ability to turn out detailed colored pencil illustrations fast, I worried that I couldn’t complete four large drawings I had envisioned for the show in addition to twenty smaller pieces.

  Thoughts of Betsy gnawed at me as I drew. Having never heard back from her, I tortured myself with regret over ever having sent her that silly, erotic cartoon. I convinced myself I had lost my chances to be her lover or friend because she thought the suggestive drawings were infantile. Or perhaps she rejected me for turning our flirtations into an inappropriate declaration of my explicit fantasies.

 
The information that Betsy had sent me about the scratchings on the bricks intrigued me. That scientific theories may have been alluded to in the scrawls of Monster Alley catapulted my imagination. I couldn’t dismiss the graffiti as being non-relevant and suspected it held a clue as to how Santa Pigeon and Doctor Steel disappeared with no apparent exit. The mystery became my inspiration as I roughed out in pencil feverish scenarios—burning pigeons, flying monkeys, reptiles and birds twisting into humans, hoof prints etched into brick, numbers and letters with animal features. Sketches piled up thickly, and I knew I had enough ideas to fill the rooms of the HooDoo Gallery.

  Now for the details and color.

  I went to the alley early one morning, snapped off more pictures of the equation, then aimed my camera to cover the rest of the passageway. The ceramic window box was still partially hidden. I removed some wet cardboard from it, and my mind emptied of reason as astonishment overwhelmed me. The hoof print was gone, but neatly coiled in the box lay Jenny’s blue and white jump-rope.

  After brooding over reasons for her toy to be there, I took some pictures of it and of the glazed sides of the pottery. Could Jenny have thrown the rope out, or was she using the dirt-filled box as a hiding place? I let the rope be, placed the soggy corrugated cardboard back in place, and left.

  Three days later, I had completed a colored pencil drawing of a little girl skip-roping furiously. She had brown cloven hooves instead of human feet.

  Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I saw a human wreck. Working non-stop, I hadn’t slept for two nights. My head had buzzing and ringing sounds inside it, and little black floaters weaved across my vision. Brenda’s bloody heart reappeared on the surface of the glass. I rubbed furiously at it. Thoughts couldn’t connect. I found the shower, stood under it until rivers of lava had turned to numbing icebergs. Feeling weak and unsteady, I made my way to the kitchen and managed to eat some sausage and cheese. Hearing voices from my bedroom, I stayed away from it and lay on my couch, trying to make out what was being said. It sounded like Amelia and Jenny discussing my drawings. My hearing seemed fuzzy, but I thought Jenny said, “There’s nothing here that’ll stop Steel from doing it his way.” Then all was quiet, and I knew they were aware of me. I saw a flash of light, heard a snapping sound. My wrist turned warm where Amelia had touched me on that day she had told me to stay safe. The warmth spread throughout my body, and I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  When I awoke twenty-four hours later, I felt rested and vowed to take better care of myself as I worked. I thought maybe the lack of sleep had caused me to hallucinate the blood on the bathroom mirror and hear the voices commenting on my art.

  The drawing of the hoofed girl whirling a jump-rope around her was mystical, the colors beautiful. I taped it to a wall and stood back to study it.

  “Wow, I could die right now. It’s my masterpiece.”

  I decided to celebrate and take a few days off, relaxing and visiting friends.

  It had snowed while I slept. The air felt new, each breath cleansing away my crazies and worries.

  Stepping out, feeling loose, I looked up to greet the blue sky and got smacked on the back of the head with a snowball. I turned to see Rolly laughing, packing another large wad of snow. We battled it out for a minute or so, all wide grins and mock threats, then ducked into Anthony’s Deli & Fruits and ordered a cup of hot chocolate and a sandwich.

  He was beaming as he told me a manager recommended by The Rolling Stones wanted to produce Wild Bird’s music.

  “In England.”

  “What? You’re kidding.”

  “He sees our chances to make records and tour in Europe as a sure thing. He can book the band in seven or eight world capitals, man. Music community’s tight over there.”

  “Man, England, too much. I told you to go turn the world upside down.”

  He nodded, took a sip from his cup. “We’re talking about a recording session. Start off with a single, see what happens.”

  “Cool, man, cool. Hey, do the B-Flat song. When you leaving?”

  “In about two weeks. Scott’s not coming with us though, man. He’s splitting to California. Do his own thing out there.”

  “Really? Too bad.”

  “We’ll miss him, but he’ll hook up with some group. Hey, come on by for one more jam.”

  Rolly finished his sandwich and left while I nursed another cup of chocolate. I sat back, reflecting on how miserable I had felt recently and how optimistic I was at the moment. Rolly had the break of a lifetime. Worries about Brenda and Betsy had been tucked away to a place where I could handle the memories. I felt energized, almost jubilant about my art as a path of discovery and personal purge of the Monster Alley’s mysteries.

  A switch had been thrown.

  Anthony reached up behind him and fiddled with the radio, turning and turning the dial until he settled on a station playing an ancient verse.

  “To every thing there is a season,

  and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

  Chapter 28

  Greenwich Village, 1966

  Magic became an enlightened reality for me the moment I met Teresa. Her eyes sparkled, shining a light from within her that palpably radiated outwards. When I felt its touch, I had no doubt our souls had just merged.

  I had gone over to Rolly’s to say a final goodbye. He wasn’t home. As I was leaving, I stopped to look at the goods in the window of the shop below his apartment. Among the flowered dresses, bright T-shirts, and Tibetan statues, there hung a purple Victorian-era jacket. I thought I’d try it on.

  Inside the store, the sweet burn of strawberry incense tickled my nose. Small, tinkling bells sounded randomly throughout the room. It seemed natural for them to clink and clang, though I felt no air current.

  The room was a forest of color and beauty. Assorted hand-painted leather belts, cloth hats, and silk vests decorated one whole wall. Peacock feathers sprouted randomly throughout the store. Lace and beads brushed against me as I moved down the aisles. I lingered, browsing through shelves and cases that held trinkets, metal bracelets, and turquoise jewelry.

  Jade statuettes sat on an intricately carved armoire surrounded by wooden masks. Four-foot tall ceramic pots, one decorated in a starry night motif, the other with bright sun faces stood on either side of the front door. Racks of peasant blouses and granny dresses portrayed a riot of decorative flowers and embroidered patterns. Beneath them, leather boots and sandals sat lined up in a neat row.

  The jacket fit like it was handcrafted for me.

  Near a poster whose colors glowed under a purple light, I spotted a jar of lime green fluorescent paint. My white sneakers claimed to be too drab, so I grabbed the green Day-Glo and headed for the cash register. No one was there, but I could hear a soft ripple of movement from a back room. After calling out a few times with no response, I stepped around the counter and passed through a doorway beyond it.

  She sat at a table with a book in front of her, her face turned in my direction when I entered, as if waiting for me. She beamed. I saw, then absorbed, the sparkles flooding me from her eyes. Bewitched, I set myself down across the table from her.

  “What’re you reading?”

  “It’s a book about holy men that nobody ever heard of.”

  “Holy men, aren’t they everywhere these days? Hey, why don’t we hear more about all the holy women?”

  She giggled, pleased with the question. Delicately, she placed a handmade, large card to save her place on the open page and leaned closer towards me, her head tilted slightly, waiting for me to continue.

  “Do you think it’s the beards?” I reached out to her bookmark and turned it towards me so as to see it better. I was awestruck by its beautifully rendered drawing of a dog sitting like dogs do. I knew immediately the black Labrador portrayed was female by the fineness of her features and the sensuous textur
ing of her fur. She was sitting on the bank of a river, chomping on a cookie bone. Behind her, a pale orange, wintry sun sat low on the horizon.

  “Very cool drawing. It’s like the artist is telling a story that’s just about to begin, and you gotta reach the end of the tale before the sun goes down. I mean look at the expression on her face and the way her tail is pointing at, or maybe into, the sun. Wait a second, am I nuts? I don’t even analyze my own work.” I bounced my head back with a comic, stunned look on my face. I opened my arms, hands up as if in astonished confusion.

  She smiled, and her eyes intensified their volume of light. She wriggled slightly in her chair, and I had to stop myself from lunging across the table with the desire I felt at that moment.

  “What’s your name? I’m Deets.”

  “Teresa. Do you really like the artwork?” Although soft as it was, I believed in that moment her voice stirred the bells in the other room to chime.

  She rotated the dog drawing ninety degrees, so we both had a view of it from opposite sides.

  “Yeah, love it. I had a dog once. He was half Doberman, half German shepherd, but he was only about this tall.” I pushed my chair back, leaned over, and held my hand about twelve inches off the ground.

  She burst out a loud spray of laughter. “Go on, you’re crazy.” Twisting in her chair so she could look at my hand better, she slapped at it gently. “Impossible, those two types of dogs are gigantic.”

  “Gigantic, you think this is gigantic?” I emphasized the height again by firmly bouncing my hand slightly.