The madman is in the kitchen. I am in the bathroom. I had excused myself, citing nature’s call. The door is locked and for the moment I am secure as much as the largely ornamental latch will allow. There are no windows here. No escape is possible. The door to the medicine cabinet hangs open, the way I left it when I went to get some valium earlier. No sounds can be heard from the outside. It is precisely 3:24 AM when I feel my bowels move.
It’s been several hours since the doorbell roused me from sleep. I opened up without first checking through the peephole. Though his name escaped me, I recognized him immediately. His hair, though considerably thinner than I remembered it, was soaking wet.
“Good God!” I announced. “What brings you out on a night like this?”
He pushed past me without answering.
“Can I get you something?” I asked when I found him pacing around in the kitchen.
He gestured distractedly and I put water on to boil. I stood by the stove, watching the pot as if in a trance. Neither of us spoke, yet the air was thick with what for me unaccountably translated into fear.
“At least take your shoes and socks off,” I ventured. “You’ll catch cold in those wet things.”
“Are you serious?” he grunted. “There’s glass all over the floor.”
He had been a high school buddy of mine - my only friend, in fact. We were both unpopular and did things together for lack of other options. After graduation, we lost touch. Our parents remained in contact. It was through my mother that I knew he’d moved to Boston where he tried to start a business and later got married. I understand they also had kids.
The pot was beginning to boil. I couldn’t find the herbal tea, so I reached for the instant (coffee). I knew that if I were to drink the stuff, I’d be awake for the rest of the night. It did cross my mind to simply grab him and toss him out the door. Isn’t it reasonable to expect that one be left alone, in one’s own home no less, after a certain hour? Besides, he was way shorter than I. I could easily have done it. But isn’t it just like me to put myself at the mercy of events? My wife had suggested that it was a way for me to avoid taking responsibility; to always put myself in the position of being able to point the finger at somebody else. I, on the other hand, prefer to think of it in terms of the curiosity instinct - waiting to see what happens.
There are several ways of enjoying one’s coffee. I wanted to ask him how he took it, but didn’t. I made both cups exactly alike: cream; no sugar.
He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the notes on the refrigerator door, held in place there by tiny, toy-shaped magnets. Among these was the yellow copy of a rental agreement. It is doubtful that he could have made anything out from that distance.
I grasped both cups at once in order to serve them, burning my fingers in the process. In my haste to release them, I spilled some of the hot liquid on the table. As the spill shot across its smooth surface, seeking the edge; he jumped up to avoid a soaking. Just then, his jacket opened to reveal the black leather of a shoulder holster.
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m still half asleep.” Then we proceeded to busy ourselves with napkins and paper towels.
“I’m getting old, Harry,” he said, aiming a wad of stained paper at the sink. “The old illusions are beginning to weaken one by one. Already, water and dust feel pretty much the same to me.”
“So, how long has it been?” I asked.
“A quarter century,” he replied dramatically. “Twenty-five Christmas cards; twenty-five promises to visit.”
I felt a pang of guilt redden my face.
“I’ve always wanted to,” I said. “But Boston isn’t exactly a hop, skip and a jump away.”
“Excuses are like assholes; everybody has one.” He sounded decidedly hostile. “Besides, you did manage to visit Barry on Oregon last year - was it? You bragged about it in your mass Christmas mailing. …and the year before that, Chris in Florida?
“My wife and I both had been expecting you,” he continued. “For a while she blamed me for not having much of a social life. Somehow, after high school, it’s never been easy to make friends.
“I guess,” he went on, “I’ve been too damn busy trying to eke out a living. In the early days, I still had hope. It took me twenty years to realize that, no matter how you slice it, the government gets it all anyway. I don’t have very much more now than when I started. The wife got so disgusted, she actually tried to poison me - anyway, she’s gone now.”
“Gee, I’m sorry to hear it, John,” I said. “My wife left me too. Financially I’m also just about scraping along. Often, I’m grateful just for the fact that time is passing. Indeed, a lot of it has passed already. If we can just manage to hang on just a bit longer…”
“That’s just it,” he stood for emphasis. “The colossal crime of our generation is that we’ve allowed ourselves to get sucked up by corporate America. They trained us well and early. Remember how our teachers used to put up poster board and stick gold and silver stars next to our names whenever we did something that was deemed exceptional? Some of the kids would practically kill for one of those blasted little trophies. Now, most of us have graduated to doing the same thing with money. From the looks of your refrigerator I can see that you yourself are still doing it the old-fashioned way, right here in your own home, probably for the benefit of your kids.”
I shift uneasily in my seat.
“I remember sitting in history class and hearing how well our democratic system works,” he continued. “In case you haven’t noticed, democracy is dead - has been for some time. Most people no longer vote, and those who do are coming to realize that the choices are cosmetic at best. There’s no longer a system - if there ever was one. It’s a goddamn free-for-all out there. We are witnessing the self-destruction of a civilization - our civilization. Every conceivable form of human degradation is now openly practiced, even sanctioned in significant quarters. Excess and need live side by side. Each feels threatened by the other. Each finds itself trapped by the whirlpool of activity that promotes it, stuck deep down in the narrow part of the funnel where motion is restricted to running in place. Every one of us has become merely a cog in some enormous machinery whose sole purpose is to… who knows what? It’s ironic that the Communists have picked exactly this time to fold up their tents.”
He sat back down and took a drink. Exhaustion had set in. I could see it in his eyes.
“I’ve done much research over the past couple of years,” he said wearily. “I’ve managed to work it all out, down to the last detail. I wanted to make a difference. But in order to do it, I needed the paper. Actually, it wasn’t my paper. I just worked there. My wife kept control of it. When I found out she sold it, I just went nuts. I struck her with a bottle - killed her instantly. Then I rented a wood chipper to dispose of the body. I have no illusions about getting away with it.”
---------------------------------------------
It was at this point I excused myself. On the way to the bathroom, I brushed by the refrigerator, dislodging some of the notes and magnets. I stooped to pick them up and took them with me.
Now I rise and pull up my pants all in one motion. My hands hover instinctively above the sink but I decide not to wash them after all. Of late, they’ve been in the habit of bleeding. The stained towels all around me are in evidence of this.
I emerge from the bathroom and walk out into the kitchen. He is gone.
“John?” I call out cautiously.
No one answers. On the table stands a full cup of cold coffee. I lock the front door and go the bedroom. More blood. As I am drifting off to sleep, I am wondering what I will tell the kids about where Mom went when they get back from camp tomorrow.
--June 1992
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment