A Self Made Monster Page 4

  He cursed his bad temper. Tearing Marty’s neck open with his teeth, driving the knife through the victim’s hand: all of it was stupid and sloppy. He was spinning out of control, and his plans to gain Edward Head’s blood were at risk.

  Mrs. Mathews clicked her tongue when Alex called in sick. “Goodness. With a headache that bad, you may have to see the doctor. There’s an influenza bug going around campus, and…”

  Mrs. Mathews set aside her typing to discuss influenza: Alex might be suffering from both bacterial and viral infections; he should eat onions, garlic, and ascorbic acid to build white blood cells. He should check his lymph nodes for swelling. Swollen nodes cause sore throats. Alex should not use an antipyretic unless the fever becomes unbearable.

  “Antipyretics are fever reducers,” she explained.

  “Why not just call them that?” Alex rubbed his eyebrow. It twitched wildly, as if it had grown nostrils and inhaled pepper.

  “Antipyretics are the proper name. I was a biology major, you know.”

  Alex grunted.

  “Furthermore—”

  “You’re right,” Alex agreed. “I’m going to the doctor right now.” He hung up.

  Alex slumped against the wall of the bedroom closet and drank whiskey. The booze dulled the headache, but not his foul mood.

  “Go to the doctor!” He laughed bitterly at his secretary’s advice. The word “doctor” triggered memories of his dead brother. “I’m beyond the realm of doctors, thank thirsty Christ.”

  Chapter Eight: Scared of the Dark

  Jimmy considered the sacrifice he was making to woo Holly Dish: taking a class he despised. As a rule, Jimmy disliked all his classes, but already he harbored the most sour loathing of Professor Resartus’s class. Other students also seemed to despise it, except the English majors: those pretentious grease spots in patched denim and dirty tennis shoes who blathered about symbols, metafiction, deconstruction, metaphor, and metonymy. And Resartus! A half-baked, Alzheimeresque slob who wrote a book that nobody read.

  All these woeful crosses to bear, and all for hot Holly Dish. Now, bracing himself to endure Resartus’s nonsense, Jimmy waited at the end of the hallway. When Holly breezed by on the way to class, he stealthily fell in behind her. He studied her trim thighs and tight ass. Jimmy guessed that Holly was a virgin ninety-nine times removed, but he did not care. He ached for her sack-smarts, for her thighs clamping his twenty five inch waist, for her tongue in his nose.

  He imagined that he was spooling her on top. She raised him up and down, like a dumbbell on the bench press.

  He did not hear her say, “No class.” He walked into the empty room.

  Holly stood in the classroom entrance. “You’re learning to like it here, huh?”

  Jimmy tried to snort nonchalantly, but the snort came out as a belch. “See what I think of this class?” he sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jimmy walked past her, hoping she did not see his blush. He was half way down the hallway when he turned around. “Want to grab some java with me at the union?” he asked in his most casual voice.

  She was gone.

  Jimmy stomped down the stairway and out the building. He was greeted by cold wind that cut through his jacket and cotton slacks. The life-affirming joy of a canceled class was gone, so he decided on a solo coffee. The caffeine might restore his spirits.

  He forgot about the coffee when he saw Holly talking with Edward Shithead. He tried to reason with himself: she’s just after his perfect notes. She doesn’t like him. How can anyone like him? Do-it-yourself haircut. Goofy blue sweatshirt and stiff denims a size too large. Eyes that are out of whack. One eye looked higher on the face than the other did, though Jimmy had noted that look on other intellectuals.

  As Jimmy reviewed the reasons to hate Edward Know It all, he realized that one of the biggest reasons was gone: that God-awful prissy varsity jacket. Jimmy guessed that Edward threw a ball like a girl—unless the girl was Holly Dish.

  “Nice break from class today, huh?” Jimmy called, approaching Edward and Holly.

  Edward looked up, sighed, and moved over to make room for Jimmy.

  Jimmy remained standing; he took every opportunity to stand over others.

  “Edward was telling me the weirdest thing about his jacket.” Holly nodded to indicate that Edward should continue with his story.

  “Yeah, I noticed you weren’t wearing that jacket.” Jimmy’s grin was mocking. “It’s a nice jacket.”

  Edward nodded.

  Impatient, Holly offered a summary. “Edward thinks that the guy who stole it was a gambler, and that he got killed or something.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I really believe that,” Edward cautioned. “But campus police said it was possible. They’d heard he owed a lot of money.”

  “Edward was studying late last night, and a maintenance man was replacing all the lights on the fourth floor. He came in to replace the lights in the room Edward was in, and—”

  “And he had this bad headache. He said he had a cluster headache.”

  “Cluster headaches!” Jimmy cackled. “What’s that bullshit?”

  “I think it was real. A teacher in high school had them. The headaches came in groups. Like two or three, then they’d be gone for a week or two.” Edward winced, recalling the teacher’s symptoms. “His eye would twitch and his nose and eyes would run.”

  “So get a Kleenex,” Jimmy said.

  “Anyway, the maintenance guy was rubbing his head and said he’d left his medicine at home. I was going to get coffee at the 7 Eleven. He said he’d get it for me and pick up some aspirin and Advil at the same time.”

  “But he had to borrow Edward’s jacket,” Holly interjected, “because the guy’d spilled paint on his own jacket.”

  “An hour went by. I went over to the 7 Eleven and asked Jeff if a guy in my jacket had come by.”

  “Jeff the stoner,” Jimmy chuckled. He narrowed his eyes and grinned.

  “And Jeff said that the guy had come in and left a long time ago!” Holly said, excited.

  “So today I talked to the campus police,” Edward continued. “They said he might be in trouble with some people he owed money to, and he might have just taken off. That didn’t make sense to me. They admitted it didn’t make sense to them, either.”

  “Why not?” Jimmy challenged.

  “Just leave in the middle of the night, in the middle of his shift? He’d even said he needed money, and that’s why he was working a double shift. And what’s a Tailor jacket worth? And it’s conspicuous to leave with a stolen jacket.”

  “There must be signs of, a, of a struggle,” Holly blurted.

  “What?” Edward asked.

  “Struggle,” Holly repeated. “If the guy got grabbed or jumped or whatever. C’mon let’s check it out!”

  “Yeah dream on,” Jimmy snickered. “What, you think you’re a cop and you’ll find—”

  “Excellent idea!” Edward announced. Holly was right: there might indeed be evidence of a struggle. He and Holly were half way across the room when Jimmy called for them to wait.

  Edward, Holly, and Jimmy carefully walked up and down the path that led to the 7 Eleven.

  “I don’t see any signs of struggle,” Jimmy said, trying to sound observant. He wondered if he would recognize such signs.

  “What would they look like?” Holly asked.

  Jimmy tried to imagine.

  “Probably not much,” Edward speculated. “Maybe you’d see a pair of footprints, where they fought. Or maybe some marks in the dirt, if the guy got dragged along.”

  The three scoured the path, which frequent travel had turned to packed dirt. They could find no such marks. They looked through the tall grass that ran parallel to the tracks, but found nothing.

  After an hour, the wind had turned sharper. Holly complained that she was cold and went home. Without Holly around, Jimmy lost interest and left too. Edward stayed, looking for anything. He found nothing.

 
; Jimmy cracked open a second after-dinner beer, handed a second to his frat brother Don. Don drank in peace because he had no homework. Jimmy drank in agitation because he had lots of homework. But if he got drunk, he would be incapable of studying, and so he could skip his homework in good conscience.

  They passed ninety minutes in gossip: who was sleeping with whom, who was cheating on whom, and who was cheating on his term paper. Don enjoyed Jimmy’s serious treatment of gossip. Don even occasionally invented gossip just to savor Jimmy’s reaction. Jimmy, the short cynic, considered himself a shrewd operator. He was always looking for the right angle on people and situations.

  Who, for example, was the easiest instructor? What girl was breaking up with what guy? She might be vulnerable, and Jimmy could provide a sympathetic ear, sweet wine, and comforting embrace. Don once lied to Jimmy that Ellen, a tall Italian girl—”Nice black curly hair, and just a faint mustache”—had broken up with her boyfriend back home.

  “You know how some of those Roman Catholics are,” Don said.

  “Of course I do,” Jimmy assured, even as he wondered what Don meant.

  “This chick was supposed to marry this guy, and she finds him cheating on her. You know,” Don improvised, “I think that the guy’s name was Jimmy. How about that?”

  Jimmy leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “Where did you hear this?”

  “I heard her talking about it between classes with, uh, with…” Don feigned forgetfulness.

  “That girl Tracy,” Don said. He knew of no Tracy.

  “I’m not sure if I know Tracy,” Jimmy lied. He also knew of no Tracy. “Whatever. I’ll play it cool.”

  “Yeah, don’t let on you know. Let her come out and, you know, confide in you.”

  “I’ll play it right.”

  Jimmy played it wrong. When Ellen did not come to the frat party at nine, as she usually did, Jimmy started drinking heavily. Ellen arrived at eleven, a striking, olive-skinned girl in a red and blue winter coat.

  “I’ll take your coat,” Jimmy offered, but the offer sounded like a drunk’s threat.

  “I’ll keep it.” She pushed by and joined a group of friends.

  Working his way through the crowd, fending off elbows, biceps, and beer cups, Jimmy approached Ellen.

  “Get you a beer?” he demanded.

  She frowned at his glazed eyes and unashamed leer. “I’ve got one.” She held up her cup.

  “Well so have I!” Jimmy snorted.

  “Looks like you’ve had one too many.”

  Jimmy noted the foam on her mustache. Her mustache, he thought, is thicker than mine and I’ve been trying to grow one for six weeks. He wiped at his upper lip, wondering if he too was foamed.

  Ellen was self-conscious enough about her mustache. Her free hand darted at her upper lip as if fending off a bee. Now her mustache was two-tone: black on the left half, white on the right.

  Jimmy had turned away, revolted by the foamy mustache, when he felt beer running down his head and back.

  He cursed her. She laughed at him.

  Jimmy’s rage was instantaneous. He wondered how he could have hoped to spool her: that mustache!

  “You bearded slut,” Jimmy growled at Ellen. “Suck on this.” He tossed his beer into her face, and he cackled at her shock: brown wide eyes, mouth contorted into a howl, foam fading into liquid that dripped onto her tomato red blouse.

  “And you suck on this,” a voice behind him countered.

  Jimmy turned to see a large fist rocket down at him. He tried to duck, but only fell drunkenly into the punch. Ellen not only was still engaged; her boyfriend Francis had just entered through the back door. Seeing his bride to be, he had waved and navigated through the crowd. As he moved to embrace her, he accidentally spilled his beer on the head of a short person. And even as Francis apologized, the short person threw beer into his fiancé’s face.

  Don’s attention was wandering. He played idly with his empty beer can, staring into space. He was remembering how funny Jimmy looked after Ellen’s boyfriend had flattened him: Jimmy on his back, surrounded by feet and legs that must have looked large and long to such a little drunk guy.

  Jimmy told Don about the disappearing maintenance man.

  “A disappearing maintenance man?” Don asked. He had been only half-listening.

  “That’s right. Last night. Looks like he got nabbed.”

  Don was skeptical. He wondered if Jimmy had learned of his deception about Ellen. Was the little creep planning revenge? “Do you think there’s anything to it?”

  Jimmy cracked his fifth can of beer. “Seems that way. But I guess even a dweeb like Edward Know It All would make up a story just to impress Holly Dish.”

  Don settled deeper into the battered chair, rested his feet on the fraying ottoman. “Who’s she?”

  “You know, Holly.” Jimmy carved two breasts in the air with his hands.

  Don acted nonplused.

  “C’mon. Holly. Big jugs.”

  “Oh yeah. A bit on the thick side, though,” he teased.

  “That’s crap! You’d kill to spool her deep dish tits.”

  “She’s solid, all right,” Don admitted. “She belongs on one of those swimsuit magazine covers, with a bikini string up between her cheeks.”

  “You’d kill to spool her deep dish tits!” Jimmy repeated, vicious.

  Booze did not flatter Jimmy; it reminded him he was short, cynical, and manipulative. He responded to these realizations by standing over people (when possible) and becoming more cynical and manipulative. “I’ll be spoolin’ her and she’ll be eating jelly off my—” Jimmy gestured emphatically, and beer spilled over his hand onto the floor. He was shouting directly into Don’s face.

  Don decided to get Jimmy some fresh air. The little guy was about to blow a gasket. “Let’s check out the crime scene.”

  “Check it out?”

  “Before Edward Sherlock Holmes finds something and runs to show Holly Deep Dish.”

  Alex punched the dashboard several times. It was not enough that he murder the wrong person, drink ill blood, and suffer a titanic headache. No, he had to leave evidence at the murder scene.

  After sleeping off his Bushmill’s, Alex sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee and chain smoking Dunhills. Soon he was out of pocket matches. He thought he had picked up a big book last week at the Blue Flamingo; a talkative bartender insisted on giving them to Alex.

  A maddening fifteen minute search recovered several kitchen matches, loose in a kitchen drawer. He lit one by striking the match head against his thumb nail. He noticed some gray fabric under his thumbnail, then saw that the fabric was under all his nails.

  Tired of striking matches with his thumbnail, he searched his jacket for matches. Still no matches. But more gray fabric was embedded in the right elbow of the jacket.

  Alex then remembered striking Marty with his right elbow, and he remembered how he yanked the wool cap over the victim’s face to muffle any shouts. Alex searched the house twice for the wool cap. After a few minutes of futile searching, he decided to search the shed, where he had stuffed Marty into the plastic bag. If the cap had been left behind, Alex reasoned, perhaps so had a book of matches. The odds of being connected to an errant cap or a lousy book of matches were remote in the extreme, but at this point, Alex believed he could not be too careful. The stakes could simply be no higher.

  Now, parked in the small faculty lot of the gymnasium, Alex lit a Dunhill, stuck a flashlight in his pocket, and followed the sidewalk around the gym to the abandoned utility shed.

  Inside the shed, he searched the cement floor with the flashlight. The beam revealed cracks in the cement, oil stains, dirt, a rusty nut and bolt. A fraying broom rested under the window. Alex leaned against the creaking workbench. The beam scanned the floor a second time. Nothing.

  Alex next walked slowly around the shed, directing the beam to where wall met ground. The frosted ground glimmered and sparkled under the beam and crac
kled under each step. No wool cap or matches.

  He had circled the shack when the flashlight beam revealed an object: the ski cap. He picked up the cap; the top of it was pinched between the hinged side of the door and the ground. An easy tug freed the cap, and Alex shoved it into his jacket pocket.

  Alex guessed that the cap had fallen from Marty’s head just as Alex stepped into the shack, and the cap got caught as Alex closed the door. And Alex had not even noted the missing cap, a potentially very serious error! Alex congratulated himself with a Dunhill, shut the door. He felt enormous relief. Screw the matches, he reasoned; they were innocuous now that he had the ski cap. And Jesus on his throne, Alex told himself, calm down…you’re panicking about every little thing because the stakes are so high…so very high.

  The beam of another flashlight stopped him.

  Alex hurried behind the shed. Thankfully, the night air was clear, and he could make out two figures among the oaks. One figure searched the ground with a flashlight, the other supervised.

  “No, we already looked there this afternoon,” the supervisor complained.

  “What about over there?” The flashlight beam jumped ahead toward the railroad tracks.

  “Yeah,” the supervisor answered.

  “How about over there?” The beam pointed toward the shed.

  “Why would you search over there?”

  The supervisor sounded irritated. “Mr. Know It All said he always took this path.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “And he didn’t stop to enjoy the fine ambiance of an abandoned maintenance shack.”

  “But he was a maintenance man, so I think we should check it out.” Don headed toward the shack. Jimmy stayed behind for a moment, swearing, then caught up.

  Alex grinned. Despite his poor memory, he often remembered people whom he disliked, and he instantly recognized the supervisor’s voice.

  “We’re wasting our time!”

  “Just shut up for a minute.”

  Alex waited until the footsteps were close: he heard the crunching of frost under the snoops’ steps. The snoops were about to turn the corner. Alex ate the spent cigarette’s butt and pulled the cap over his face.