A Self Made Monster Read online

  “This is way off the path,” Jimmy asserted. “It doesn’t make sense that—” Jimmy collided with a thin man in a ski mask. Jimmy yelped like a frightened puppy.

  The thin man stood impassively, hands in jacket pockets.

  “Watch it, buddy.” Jimmy said.

  The man nodded an apology and stuck a fresh cigarette into his mouth. “Light?” The request was muffled through the mask’s mouth hole, and the eyes narrowed behind the eye holes. His request was a command.

  Eager to obey, Don fumbled with the matches he had found on the trail. “Pretty cold for a walk tonight, eh?”

  Alex extended a gloved hand. “The matches,” he queried in a low Southern accent. “I wonder if I might see them?”

  “Sure. I found them just now, on the ground.”

  Alex accepted the matches, looked at the cover. “The Blue Flamingo,” he read tonelessly, though he wanted to laugh. His luck tonight was a blessed marvel.

  “It’s a bar downtown,” Don said. “A dive, really.”

  Jimmy studied the thin man. Must a have a long nose, Jimmy thought. His nose is stretching that mask like a hard on. “You’re welcome. For the matches.”

  Unfortunately, the ski masked man had quit talking, and Jimmy did not know how to react to his silence. The silence made the confrontation absurd. If the man carried a gun, it might fire a colorful flag that proclaimed “Pow!” Or it might fire dumdums.

  Jimmy wanted to shout. Or punch. Or faint. He finally stepped back. He tried to study the contours of the man’s features behind the ski mask, but the light was poor. “Well, you’re sure talkative!” Jimmy blurted.

  Alex nodded, and Don told Jimmy that they should get back.

  “Why?” Jimmy snapped at Don. “We’re not done yet.” But Don was already twenty feet away, eager to get home for more beer and his warm room.

  Feeling mischievous, Alex stepped forward and drew his gloved hands from his jacket pockets. Then, as Jimmy’s eyes bugged, Alex theatrically ran a forefinger across his own throat. Jimmy sprinted across the frozen ground and crunchy, brittle leaves. He imagined that the man chased him in an erratic, demented gate while fanning the air with a knife. His strides felt slow and weak, as if he were running through water. At one point, he stumbled and fell, sliding ten feet on his face.

  “You fuck!” he shrieked at Don. “Wait for me!”

  Don turned. When he saw that Jimmy’s face was covered with muddy snow, he laughed.

  Back in the frat house, Jimmy berated Don for abandoning him with the killer. Don laughed, told Jimmy to stop fantasizing. “That guy’s just some townie. Some bum.”

  “He’s said I’m next!” Jimmy insisted.

  Don was reduced to helpless laughter, and Jimmy stomped angrily from the room. When Don called for Jimmy to come back, Jimmy threw an empty beer can at him.

  Chapter Nine: “I’m the next victim!”

  The headaches had first come in waves, but not like waves that lap the shore. The waves were heavy and their impact was painful. Every thirty seconds, it seemed that a refrigerator dropped on him.

  Now, by Wednesday, the waves had subsided to a dull, seamless ache. His right eye no longer watered, and his forehead was no longer knotted in wrinkles.

  Alex muddled through his first three classes, often stopping to gather his thoughts. Walking into Modern British Literature, however, his spirits rose. He looked forward to seeing little Jimmy Stubbs.

  But Alex did not call Jimmy a dwarf. Instead, he followed his lecture notes, which his secretary had kindly retyped while Alex was ill, and concluded class with a reminder.

  “Our field trip to Chicago begins Thursday afternoon. We leave campus from the library parking lot at 5:00 and arrive at our hotel around…” He consulted his itinerary. “…Yes, around 9:30.”

  Some of the students looked surprised. Their wrinkled foreheads and slack jaws revealed that they had forgotten about the field trip. Others snickered and smirked with one another. The field trip let them miss Friday classes without penalty.

  “Don’t forget to bring some heavy clothing. The wind goes right through you on Michigan Avenue. And if the wind is strong and you’re along Wacker, you could get blown right into the Chicago River.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. He figured that most of his classmates had not been to Chicago. He, however, had grown up in Worth, a Chicago suburb. I’ll show Holly around the city, Jimmy thought. And I’ll be her special guide to nightlife.

  “Any questions about the trip?” Alex asked, hoping for none.

  “What time Friday does the play start?” Edward Head asked.

  Would you shut up for once? Alex thought. He resented Edward for botching up the murder, and for the crippling headaches. “I think that information is in the course syllabus,” Alex said, though he did not remember.

  “No, I think that information isn’t there.”

  Alex’s smile was brittle. “Are you sure? Take another look.”

  “I don’t need to.” Edward winced; his remark was arrogant. “I mean, I remember. The syllabus said we’d see Saint Joan by George Bernard Shaw at the Royal George Theater.” Edward narrowed his eyes, a study in concentration. “The theater is on Halsted. But the time wasn’t stated in the syllabus.” Edward was about to say that Saint Joan was first performed in 1923 in New York City, but the professor’s expression dissuaded him.

  “No further questions then,” Alex asserted. “See you Thursday evening in the library parking lot at…” He was irritated that several students were already through the door.

  “At 5:00,” Edward whispered to himself.

  “At 5:00,” Jimmy mumbled as he passed Alex.

  “5:00,” Holly chirped. She paused in front of Alex. “I’m really looking forward to the field trip. I think Saint John will be great.”

  His headache was returning, so Alex did not note Holly’s renaming of Saint Joan. He did see, however, why Holly inspired lust. Toned arms and legs, high performance hams, gravity-defying bust.

  When she realized her blunder, Holly kept her grin in place even as her face reddened. You’re as sharp as a pillowcase, Holly thought. Keep renaming plays and you’ll get a sparkling letter of recommendation.

  “See you tomorrow.” Holly turned to hide her blush and was quickly out the door.

  Edward saw Holly and Jimmy waiting for him by the stairwell.

  “You won’t believe what happened last night,” Jimmy began. He wanted Holly to marvel at his courage, and he wanted Edward Know It all to see Holly marvel.

  They walked to the student union. Jimmy bought coffee for himself, Holly, and Edward, and led them to a table in the back.

  “I don’t want anyone to hear about this,” Jimmy cautioned. Then, voice low, he narrated last night’s events. He embellished cleverly. He made hay out of the fact that Don left first, leaving Jimmy alone with the ski masked stranger.

  “That jerk took off like a gazelle, and here I am with this maniac. The guy just stands there looking at me, then all of a sudden he comes at me.” Jimmy reached across the table, illustrating how “the creep was trying to choke me!”

  “He attacked you?” Edward asked.

  “Yeah, he choked me.” He savored Holly’s reaction: her mouth opened slightly, and her eyes bulged. Fuck man, Jimmy thought, I hope her nipples get hard. “Fucker had leather gloves on and I tried scratching at his hands but—”

  “How long did he choke you?” Edward interrupted.

  “Not that long. I had a pencil in my pocket, and I stabbed one of his hands. He let go, and I took off.” As Holly gasped, Jimmy shot a quick smirk at Edward.

  “But you said he had gloves on,” Edward countered.

  “So?”

  “You’re lucky that you managed to drive a pencil through the glove. You said they were leather, right?”

  Jimmy ignored him and faced Holly. “I was sprinting. I was about forty yards from Lincolnway, and I’m thinking, ‘You got away!’ I look behind me and this maniac
is right behind me! I’m thinking, ‘Christ, I’m next! I’m the next victim!’”

  Edward sputtered. “So you know he’s the murderer?” He looked to Holly for skepticism, but she was all wide-eyed credulity.

  “He said he was!” Jimmy insisted.

  “Did he tell you his name too?”

  Holly frowned. “Edward, shut up for a moment, will you?”

  “No. But he said…” Jimmy paused to enjoy Holly’s attention and Edward’s frustration. “He said, ‘You’re next!’”

  Chapter Ten: Lights, Camera, but no Action

  The students chattered as the bus rolled north toward Chicago on 155. A few talked about St. Joan, but most talked about the bars and stores they wanted to see. Students who had been to Chicago assumed the roles of guides, including Jimmy Stubbs. But after two hours, the chatter ceased and many students napped.

  Alex moved to the back. The last four rows were empty. He eased into the last seat, turned on the overhead exhaust vent, and smoked. After his tenth cigarette, Alex pulled a pint of tequila from his duffel bag. Soon the tequila worked its magic: Alex felt light, free of that damned headache. I’m a simple bastard, he thought. Leave me alone with my cigarettes, drink, and a good play once in a while.

  More tequila made him sleepy. His bones felt loose in his skin, like short ribs loosely wrapped in paper. He dozed.

  An hour from Chicago, Jimmy ached to boast about his encounter with the ski masked murderer, but he resisted. He thought that the return trip would be a better time for the story. His classmates would be bored with the long ride and would enjoy the entertainment.

  Besides, Edward Know It All was only two rows behind. He would try to steal everyone’s attention: I lent the guy my jacket, he would say, and I gave him money to buy coffee for both of us, and I led Jimmy and Holly to the scene of the crime, and fuck man, I’m the hero!

  Fortunately, Edward and Holly did not mention the incident, either, so Jimmy looked forward to sharing a thrilling story on the bus ride back.

  Alex woke to chatter. The lights of Chicago had excited the students. On the left was the new Comiskey Park. Directly north, the Sears Tower and Hancock building reached into the foggy night, black monoliths with nearly infinite rows of bright tiny windows.

  The bus exited at Lake Shore Drive. The self-appointed travel guides resumed talking. They pointed out the Field Museum of Natural History and the Shed Aquarium. Several students ignored the buildings and marveled at the hundreds of yachts, sleeping in the harbor along Lake Shore.

  “There’s Soldiers Field, where the Chicago Bears play,” a Tailor College football player said.

  “It’s Soldier Field,” Jimmy corrected.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “There’s no ‘S’. It’s ‘Soldier’, not ‘Soldiers.’”

  “Remind me to apologize to you.”

  The bus made its way to Michigan Avenue and eased to a stop in front of the Palmer House Hilton Hotel. The bus’s overhead lights came on, and Alex pushed his empty bottle into his duffel bag. “Exit in an orderly fashion. One at a time, boys and girls. Do not trample one another, do not talk loudly, and do not enjoy yourselves during one moment of this trip.” His voice was high and nasal, an expert imitation of a fretting grade school principal. The students laughed and joked, appreciating their professor’s good humor.

  Inside the enormous plush lobby, the students stood in a group as Alex distributed the students’ room keys. Jimmy stood next to Carl Locke. Jimmy and Carl were assigned to share a room. Jimmy was pleased because Carl was only six inches taller than he was, and Carl had never been in Chicago.

  “This isn’t a bad hotel, but there are a lot fancier ones,” Jimmy informed Carl.

  “Looks pretty good to me,” he grinned. He nodded toward a loud posse of pretty young women as they stepped onto an escalator leading to the next level.

  “It’s okay,” Jimmy grunted.

  Carl noted the numerous vermilion couches, which seemed longer than his car. Floor lamps with ornate stems threw overlapping spheres of warm light across the width and length of the lobby’s floor. Circular end tables accompanied overstuffed high back chairs. A group of business men sat drinking cocktails, trading divorce stories.

  Edward got his key and visited the coffee shop. A few men sat alone in booths, reviewing sales figures and double-checking ledgers. Edward had a cup of decaf and a salad, then went to his room. He was relieved that his assigned roommate had broken a leg and had to remain at Tailor.

  Edward pulled his camcorder from his suitcase. He planned to film a documentary of his class’ field trip. He had written a letter to the Field Museum and the Museum of Art, requesting permission to film on their premises. The Art Museum refused permission, and it even threatened to have Edward arrested if he tried to sneak in “any kind, manner, or form of filming device, moving or still camera.” But the Field Museum granted permission. The assistant curator requested only that Edward be accompanied by a museum employee.

  Once back at Tailor, Edward planned to follow up on his filming by recording an accompanying narrative. The narrative would unify the scenes and serve as clever commentary. Edward hoped to sell the film to the college as an introduction for any class that visited Chicago. Ultimately, he hoped the film would help him get into film school.

  “Why not start now?” Edward asked the camcorder. He attached the camcorder to its tripod and pressed the AutoFilm button.

  “We’re here in Chicago, and we, we…”

  Edward got up to make sure the door was locked.

  “I am in Chicago as a stranger, having been here only three times. The first time, as an infant with my mother and father. We visited a brother of my mom’s. Uncle Slim. The second time, as a thirteen year old with my mother. We visited Uncle Slim again. The third time, as a sixteen year old. My mother and I attended Uncle Slim’s funeral.”

  Edward winced. “Cut.” His introduction sounded pretentious, so he tried to be casual.

  “My name’s Edward. Cut. Damn it.”

  He cleared his throat. “My name is Ed, and this film will introduce Chicago to you. You’ll see some of the city’s obvious attractions, and some of its not so obvious attractions.”

  He realized he was picking his nose. He decided to continue because he could splice later.

  “This will be a record of the particular students on the trip. They’ll offer you some comments and some insights into the city and its culture.”

  He turned off the machine, rewound the cassette, and reviewed the intro through the viewfinder.

  Edward the viewer cringed at Edward the narrator.

  The narrator’s nose was oily and, in conspiracy with the dresser lamp, cast a shadow that reached his right ear. The harsh light and shadow made his chin look like an ass. A blushing pimple demanded privacy. The narrator’s nostrils flared, as if he had to sneeze.

  A flicker, then blackness. Now the narrator reappeared, sitting further away. The nostrils kept flaring. And yes, here it came, the index finger violating a nostril.

  Edward erased the introduction. In the bathroom, he examined his chin in the mirror. The pimple was smaller than the camera made it look, but it still had to go. He squeezed. Holding a paper tissue to his purged pimple, Edward knew he could not narrate his documentary. He would have to find someone else.

  Edward dropped the tissue and wondered why he had not thought of it earlier. “Holly,” he said in a stage whisper, “you look very good on camera. Yes, I really think so. Okay, now just talk naturally into the camera. Try not to look like you’re reciting my script.”

  According to the itinerary, the class was to meet in the coffee shop at 9:30 a.m. By 9:45, all the students had arrived, and they waited for their professor. Jimmy drank coffee with his back to his classmates. He had been up since 5:00 and had already taken a walk up Michigan Avenue to the Chicago River. Last night, he had slept poorly. He was not used to having a stranger in the room with him, and Carl had snored al
l night. Jimmy lay in bed, staring at the darkness and getting angry. Twice he got out of bed and poked Carl. Carl apologized, fell asleep, and resumed snoring.

  Infuriated, Jimmy clamped his hand over Carl’s nose.

  “What in the hell…!” Carl suffered a coughing jag. “Get me some water!”

  “I will if you stop snoring.”

  “Fuck off, midget.” Carl stumbled to the bathroom, stubbing his toe on the way, and drank two glasses of water.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, midget?” Carl stood over Jimmy, waving the drinking glass like a club.

  Jimmy got back into bed, pulled the covers up to his chin. “Relax. You won’t snore any more because I scared you.”

  Carl cursed again, got into bed, and slept without snoring for a few minutes. Jimmy dressed and left the room.

  Now Jimmy looked at his watch: 9:45, and no sign of Resartus. Maybe the guy is sick, Jimmy thought, and will call off the scheduled events. Then Jimmy could concentrate on charming Holly Dish before the return trip. Jimmy hoped that his superior Chicago savvy would put him in charge. Rush Street was not the place to go, he would announce with amusement. Only conventioneers and suburban divorcees went there. River North, once a run down shambles, was now an upscale neighborhood of bars and restaurants. It was, Jimmy thought, the place to be. Or, maybe they’d get up to Wicker Park, another refurbished and suddenly hip neighborhood. Jimmy would promise Holly the real Chicago. Once he gained her confidence, he reasoned, his charm would do the rest.

  Jimmy’s schemes evaporated when he saw Resartus enter the coffee shop. Jimmy sighed and joined the group.

  Carl was waiting for him. “I want to let you know I won’t be bothering you any more. I’m bunking with a couple of guys down the hall.”

  “Your snores will still wake me up.”

  Alex reviewed the day’s schedule: two hours at the Field Museum, lunch break, then two hours at the Museum of Art. At 4:30, the students were on their own until Saturday afternoon, when the class would attend the matinee performance of St. Joan.