A Self Made Monster Read online

  He dreaded each spring because spring brought summer. Summer sun was the most dangerous. During the summer, he waited until dusk to come outside. He wore sunglasses, a hat, gloves, and a jacket with a full collar. Heavy clothing looked odd in July, so he said that he had suffered melanoma as a child. Winter sun was the least dangerous: he could go outside in the late afternoon if he wore sunglasses and dressed carefully.

  But noon was always dangerous. Even the noon sun of December raised gelatinous blisters the size of fried eggs. And high noon in July! The thought appalled him. Alex would smoke and pop, like an insect trapped under a cruel child’s magnifying glass.

  At home, Alex searched through his dozens of bookcases and found a copy of The Best Year of His Life. The novel covered one year in the life of Eric, a surgeon. In the course of the year, Eric slips and falls on his wife while performing the Heimlich; her skull is split and she dies in the ambulance. Some months later, Eric’s mother goes into insulin shock and dies on his operating table as he performs a biopsy. The mayor’s daughter, awaiting a tracheotomy, dies of anaphylactic shock caused by anesthesia. Meanwhile, Eric’s former girlfriend Happy threatens to sue for child support payments. Eric believes the child is his, but he is too distracted by his ruined career to communicate with her.

  Eric’s faith in medicine is ruined, and he even avoids seeing a dentist about a toothache. The toothache worsens. In drunken despair, Eric pulls the offending tooth, using only channel looks, oil of clove, and Old Bushmill’s.

  After pulling the tooth, Eric calls Happy and proposes a scheme. The scheme is complicated, Happy is not bright, and Eric must often pause to hold an ice bag to his mouth. But he finally manages to explain the scheme: Eric will perform needless exploratory heart surgery. Happy will file a malpractice suit, win, and the two will flee to Cancun.

  The scheme succeeds, although Eric must bribe a colleague to testify against him in court. Eric and Happy flee with $2,000,000 to Cancun. Eric, Happy, and their child operate a hotel on the beach. Eric acts as the hotel’s beachside bartender and off-hours dentist.

  Several strips of transparent tape on the novel’s dust jacket had turned yellow and brittle. Alex smiled at the reviews on the back:

  “The finest example of black humor of the season. Horrific laughter, not mere

  bitterness!”-The New York Times

  “Mr. Resartus’s first novel blasts off and never falters. He is now the young member of that old fraternity of such writers as Heller, Donleavy, Stewart, and Southern, writers who kept black humor alive even as the uncertain new millennium waited patiently.”-The Fresno Bee.

  “Nobody in recent years has so effectively wedded a pessimistic outlook with a comic technique.”-The Chicago Tribune.

  As he read the reviews, Alex tried to recall the promise his career once held. His family predicted fame and fortune. Alex fended off such talk, but hoped they were correct. The fact that Alex suffered from schizophrenia, the publisher hoped, might provide invaluable extra publicity. “You could be the next big thing, a real idiot savant!” his agent enthused. “Hard to buy that kind of publicity!” But The Best Year of His Life bombed. Alex’s only royalty check, $788, mocked his hopes. He urged his publisher to promote the book more, but the publisher replied that the book was dead.

  Dead, just like his brother David.

  David, a physician, was murdered in an emergency room six months after Alex’s novel was published. Alex happened to be with David that day, but he remembered only fleeting details: David yelling for help. Blood on the floor, on the ceiling, on hands and faces and white jackets. Somebody who was hurt or demented sitting beside Alex and laughing, blood spilling from his mouth as his laughter grew hysterical.

  Alex often tried to recall that day, but the details eluded him. Alex simply knew that he improved that day: no more anxieties, no more depression, no more David. And a new therapy–human blood–replaced David’s drug therapy.

  “Psychiatrists really are quacks,” David often said while giving Alex another psychoactive cocktail: various mixtures of lithium, trazodone, and haloperidol. “Freud’s primitive psychoanalysis is still polluting modern medicine. Analyzing dreams, for Christ’s sake! But don’t worry, Alex. Drugs will eradicate all mental illness in the 21st century.”

  Alex smiled weakly. “Well we’re almost there.”

  “That’s the spirit!” And so Alex’s already brittle psyche was strained, whipped, and pureed by David’s reckless drug therapy.

  When David was murdered, Alex feared the novel was jinxed. David’s murder naturally dampened the family enthusiasm for Alex’s novel. And besides, mom and dad confessed the day after the funeral that they did not like The Best Year of His Life. “It’s kind of depressing,” his mom complained. When the novel died almost simultaneously with David, Alex hated David even more. At least he’s dead now, Alex often told himself.

  Alex used his novel’s good reviews and the embers of his literary reputation to get a job at Tailor. Tailor was in the middle of Illinois, close enough for excursions into Chicago and St. Louis. And the surrounding dozing towns contained plenty of potential victims.

  The literary world forgot Alex. His schizophrenia, and his tendency to assume victims’ traits, often left him severely disorganized. He could not develop his ideas. Now he sat at his kitchen table, staring at his copy of The Best Year of His Life.

  If I could just concentrate, just remember things, Alex mused, I could write another novel.

  Chapter Four: Plans

  Edward Head lived two miles from campus in a bungalow that was converted into two apartments. Edward lived in the basement apartment and filled his time there studying, listening to CD’s, and tinkering with videotape equipment and hidden microphones. Jill and Cheryl, two coeds, lived in the apartment above him. On occasion, he used tiny microphones to spy on the coeds. Recently, the coeds had not provided much entertainment. They had stopped seeing their boyfriends and killed time with TV and arguments about bathroom rights.

  Tonight, Edward enjoyed his latest hobby: videotaped movies. He turned off the lights, drew the curtains, and loaded the VCR with his newest tape: Under the Big Top. Light from the screen flickered across his face, and he smiled. The first image was promising:

  A stained leather tarp. On the tarp, a nude woman with a green Mohawk stiff enough to be a broomhead is on her hands and knees. A male voice commands, “Turn around, Blinkey.”

  Blinkey faces the camera. She is in white face. Black greasepaint is smeared on her mouth, and red ovals highlight her cheekbones. A hand appears, places a cigarette in her mouth, lights the cigarette. Blinkey takes a long drag, then a second. Smoke rushes out of her flared nostrils. She nods.

  The hand removes the cigarette. “Now it’s Corkey’s turn,” a male voice announces.

  The production quality of the video is low. When Blinkey looks up, the harsh lighting turns Blinkey’s pockmarks into little craters.

  Now a long shot of Blinkey, and the surroundings are clear: Blinkey is inside a circus tent. A male clown approaches from behind. He has a white face, fixed red smile, and maniacally raised eyebrows. He is removing his green suspenders. As he gets closer, he unzips his fly.

  Now a close up. On the right of the screen, Blinkey’s face in profile. On the left, an erect penis painted as a candy cane, white with red stripes. Blinkey closes her eyes and opens her mouth.

  Edward was rubbing his crotch when the phone rang. He tried to ignore the interruption, but the mood was ruined and he turned off the VCR.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Edward? This is Holly Dish. I’m in the lit class.”

  Well come on over, Edward thought to himself. He looked at his crotch. I’ve got a surprise for you.

  Holly did not invite herself over. She simply asked if Edward had taken notes from the day’s class. Edward said he did take notes, but he could recite Resartus’s lecture without consulting them.

  “We didn’t get through much,” Edward remi
nded her. He outlined the use of symbol in Lady Chatterly’s Lover: the impotent husband in a wheelchair, the restless wife, the simple, passionate groundskeeper. Edward talked twenty minutes without stopping.

  Holly’s hand was cramping from taking notes. “I need someone like you.” A pause. “To take notes. Thanks again.”

  “Good night.”

  Edward did not start the tape. The sobering glare of the flickering fluorescent kitchen light made him feel foolish.

  He wondered if Holly was actually interested in him, but skepticism chased the thought away. No, Edward decided, Holly Dish simply wanted notes. True, she had talked with him today in the cafeteria. She was friendly enough, but was simply killing time.

  Edward imagined Holly starring in Under The Big Top. She sits on the tarp and pulls off a tee shirt. Next she lies back, pulls down her zipper, and shimmies out of her jeans. Her thighs are oiled, cabled. Her rib cage promises power and excitement, like a sports car’s grille. She pulls on yellow clown shoes; they are flat and wide, like the blade of an oar.

  Her thighs squeeze and chafe Edward’s face. The clown shoes oscillate.

  Edward’s pants were already off. He flipped the light switch, sprinted into the living room, and restarted the tape.

  Comfortable in a gray Tailor College sweatsuit, Holly Dish lounged on her bed, reading the latest issue of Me, Myself, and I. The feature article exhorted her to “take charge of your own life and the lives of others around you!”

  Holly accepted the article’s thesis. As the article advised, Holly was planning her career and “taking the steps that make women winners!” Her phone call to Edward Head had been one such step. With careful teasing–”I need someone like you”—Edward would provide notes throughout the semester. Edward’s notes greatly improved Resartus’s lectures: they filled in the gaps, made transitions between points, and removed the tangents.

  With such fine notes, Holly’s chances of passing Resartus’s class increased. True, she hated to read anything but magazines. But as the career articles declared, “You can’t make it to the fast track with a short cut!” Holly resigned herself to try reading most of her homework.

  If her plan worked, Resartus might reward her with a “B” (an “A” seemed impossible) along with a letter of recommendation. Resartus’s would be the fourth such letter. The previous three had come from Holly’s advisor, her gym teacher, and her freshman dorm director.

  Holly’s advisor, Dr. Blake, learned that Holly was in Alex Resartus’s class.

  “Professor Resartus is semi-known in the literary field,” Dr. Blake told Holly. “I think that if you do well, a letter from him would help your career plans.”

  “What kind of stuff does he write?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of writing.”

  Her advisor’s ignorance did not concern Holly. A published writer was a published writer.

  Holly finished the article and reluctantly began reading Lady Chatterly’s Lover. She was asleep in ten minutes, the book gently falling and rising on her stomach.

  Chapter Five: No More Pulps?

  Alex rarely received personal letters. His mail was typically bills and ads, and he waited until Saturday to unpack his mailbox. He dropped the mail onto the kitchen table. Electric bill. Numerous department store ads. Car insurance renewal form. Several credit card solicitations.

  But underneath a pizzeria ad was a business envelope.

  The envelope’s upper left-hand corner featured the logo of Guns, Blood, and Shovels, and Alex laughed. Guns, Blood, and Shovels was a quarterly pulp of mystery, murder, and horror stories. Guns had published three of Alex’s short stories over the last four years.

  The note inside the envelope was from Tim Skillet, the editor.

  Dear Mr. Resartus:

  Our accountant—well, okay, we hire an accountant once a year to evaluate our health!—discovered an error in payment made for a story of yours, “Orville’s Lesson in Love.” Seems we underpaid you by twenty dollars. I’ve sent you a check, along with an extra fifteen. We at Guns hope that the extra money will inspire you to contribute more of your work. “Orville’s Lesson in Love” was a hit with our readers. They’d like a follow up! Hope to hear from you.

  Yours, Tim

  “How kind of you, Mr. Skillet,” Alex murmured, recalling the story. It was about Orville, a rapist. One night, Orville was working in his garage when a woman approached. She lived down the road, she said, and had lost her dog.

  Orville raped her.

  Afterward, he lay on his back smoking a cigarette. “You think that sex and violence are the same,” the woman accused through bloody lips. Orville agreed. He stabbed her a hundred times then buried her in his back yard.

  The next night, someone knocked on his front door. The murdered woman, her ribboned throat glazed with dried blood and moist viscera, stood under his porch light. She pleaded with Orville to let her in. When Orville refused, she threw herself through Orville’s living room picture window.

  She chased him through the house. She screamed repeatedly that Orville equated sex with violence. Finally she cornered Orville in his kitchen. She grabbed a carving knife. He covered his face with his arms, weeping. “I’m sorry! Sex and violence are not the same! They’re different!”

  The woman laughed. Her upper lip was nearly sheared from her mouth, and it dangled over the side of her jaw. “Just so you won’t forget.” She drove the knife into his stomach.

  As Orville died, the woman’s voice deepened into that of a man’s.

  Orville awoke in prison. He had been convicted of murdering a woman while she searched for a lost dog. As Orville lay on his cot, sweat-soaked prison garb clinging to his skin, his cellmate slapped him. Orville’s eyes widened. A six foot five con with watery blue eyes and a decorative nail through his earlobe winked. “Turn over. I’m gonna learn you the difference between rape and love. Just so you won’t forget.”

  “Orville’s Lesson in Love” was published two years ago. The story was simple, yet Alex enjoyed the crude justice that the pulps demanded. And these days, Alex was grateful to see his name in print on more than bills and junk mail.

  Alex wondered if he still had a readership, as the editor claimed. For macabre vignettes, yes. For a novel? Did the readers of The Best Year His Life ever wonder why Alex never wrote another book?

  Alex walked down the hall to his study. He leaned against the door frame, looked at his desk. On the desk was his computer. Next to the computer, a notebook with several ideas for a novel. The notebook was mostly scribbling and doodles.

  The notebook beckoned. He flipped through it, pausing every few pages to review his notes. The notes were mostly character sketches, based on people he knew at the college. As he reviewed the sketches, Alex was angered for the thousandth time. He had written his first novel in three months, filling four yellow legal pads. He wrote standing up, fifteen hours a day, quitting at midnight to sleep on the floor. Alex had been afraid that if he quit writing, he would lose his train of thought: just as when he was a teenager, he read novels in one day, stopping only for lunch and for whatever psychosis medication was in vogue.

  Now, staring at his desk, Alex’s anger soared. The anger demanded satisfaction, but the satisfaction had to be gained carefully, without mistakes. He straightened out his notes, filed the letter from Blood, then went for a drive.

  He took highway 40 south, past Pine Lake. After a half hour on the highway, Alex turned left onto an unnamed gravel road. He cruised at 45, enjoying the soothing hum of tires against black road.

  As he tossed his fifth cigarette butt out the window, the headlights revealed the blue windbreaker and red cap of a hitchhiker. Alex slowed, as if to pick up the hitchhiker; as the hitchhiker smiled, Alex stomped the accelerator. The hitchhiker dropped to his haunches and raised his hands, as if praying.

  Alex parked the car on the road’s shoulder, and walked the twenty feet that separated the collision from the body. The hitchhiker was on his bac
k, yet his face was flattened into the road. Alex could not see where the bony gruel of the hitchhiker’s face ended and the gravel began.

  After studying the body, Alex removed a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. “This is probably a futile gesture, but the way you landed…Jesus!” In his note book, Alex recorded the geometrical perfection and skeletal perversion with which the body rested.

  Alex leaned on his lectern, trying to sound professorial. “Come on. We have to proceed. Come now. Review is important. Who can tell me what rank Mellors held in the army?”

  The students shifted in their chairs. A few made no pretense of interest and slept. Holly Dish glanced at her watch, bored, but knew she had to make a good impression. She raised her hand.

  Alex nodded.

  “Indian,” Holly announced.

  “Indian?”

  Holly repeated herself, then looked at her classmates. Several were laughing. Damn, she thought, he asked what rank, not what army.

  “He was an officer,” Holly nearly shouted.

  “Good,” Alex said. “As long as we’re on it, what nation?”

  More shifting in chairs.

  Edward Head rolled his eyes. He waited for someone to answer. Finally, almost wearily, he spoke. “Mellors was an Officer in the Indian army. And as long as we’re on it, his father was a miner, just like Lawrence’s.”

  Deciding that only Edward had read the novel carefully, Alex continued with his lecture, often turning to his notes. Whenever he lectured, Alex was grateful that his secretary, Mrs. Mathews, was well organized. She kept all his notes on file. They were cross indexed by title, genre, and author.

  Alex wanted to discuss the novel’s ground breaking eroticism, but he ran out of time. “Let’s break it off now. Next time, we’ll talk about the real reason the book is famous.”

  A few students smiled.

  As Jimmy Stubbs watched Holly walk out of the room, he stifled a lust driven groan. She was wearing a skirt today.

  Jimmy’s unabashed stare amused Alex. The little guy wants to wrestle her, Alex thought, and she’d pin him in ten seconds. Edward was watching Holly, too. But he was sly. He fumbled with his books and stole glances at Holly’s buttocks, coiled under her skirt.