A Self Made Monster (16 page)

Alex whipped the handcuffs across Carl’s face. Carl dropped to one knee, and Alex kicked him. Alex noted the house’s address, then ran into the house, dragging Carl by the jacket with him. Just inside the front door, Alex saw the middle-aged man with the phone. He had just pushed the “9” button on his phone to dial 911. When he heard someone approach behind him, he paused and turned with a relieved smile. “Here, I’ll let you call in and—”

When he saw a thin bearded man with a bloody face, he dropped the phone.

Alex put the phone back in its cradle.

The man dropped to his hands and knees to beg for mercy.

“Shut up and give me your car keys.”

The man pulled them from his pants pocket. “It’s brand new BMW! A beauty. Take it!”

Alex punched him.

The night sky was painted with reddish-white smoke. The sirens, flashing lights, and crackling radios soon lured the neighborhood residents onto the street. Two more squad cars squealed to a stop in front of the house.

“This is a son of a bitch,” a fireman yelled to his partner. He wiped soot from his forehead and wondered how the fire started.

It had started ten minutes earlier. Alex found a can of gas in the garage. He poured a trail of gas through the living room to the kitchen and den, then up the stairs to the bedrooms. He backed the BMW out of the garage and, with the car idling in the driveway, tossed a lit kitchen match down the stairs. To keep everyone occupied, Alex turned on the gas range before driving away.

Alex admired the car. It was midnight blue and had leather upholstery, CD player, and moonroof. He fleetingly thought of stealing it, but knew he could not. He spotted his own car and kept driving, just to be safe. In a few minutes, the entire town’s police and fire force would be fully occupied, struggling to contain the unforgiving fire and to control neighborhood panic. He would park the BMW, walk freely to his own car, and be on the highway in fifteen minutes.

The east horizon was turning pink. Sullen auto factories churned white smoke. Alex exited at Flint and checked into a Low Rent Inn. He pulled the blinds, turned on all the lights, and examined himself in the mirror.

The pharmacist’s blood had helped. Alex’s nose was regaining its original shape. The eyelashes were still long, but the holes in his earlobes had filled in. His irises resembled an artist’s messy palette, with several colors mixed into a seaweed green. Alex took four haloperidols and hoped his vision improved.

His dream was wonderful.

Alex sat on a leather couch. The room was filled with men in tuxedos and women in sleek dresses. Someone produced a bottle of champagne. The cork bounced off the ceiling, and everyone applauded.

“To our most prized author!” the executive vice president of Conglomerate Publishing declared. He sounded a dramatic chord on the grand piano, and the guests chuckled. “
My Live as a Dead Man
will be on the
New York Times
best seller list this week.”

Alex nodded modestly.

“More than that,” the veep continued. “I’m terribly pleased to tell you that
My Life as a Dead Man
will enter the best seller list at…” He shook his head, as if disbelieving his own words, “…at number one!”

Applause and cheers. A woman in a crushed black velvet puff dress sat beside Alex. She rested her hand on his thigh. “May I be the first to congratulate you for such a feat?” She had a French accent, which Alex found exotic and exciting. She kissed Alex’s cheek.

“You’re the literary story of the year,” a bald man exclaimed. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and shook them to punctuate his words. “To return after years of anonymity! It’s sensational! You might be the next Pynchon.”

“What about movie rights?” the French woman asked. She re-filled Alex’s champagne glass.

“Authors are often seduced by the film industry, and I’ll admit that I’m attracted to it,” Alex confessed. “She’s a beautiful seductress.” The din of conversation stopped as Alex expounded.

“But beautiful seductresses can make great demands. And they can distract us from doing the work that brought us success. You know, one of my favorite authors is Nathanael West. Bless him, he got me through a few tough times as a teenager. His
Day of the Locust
is a marvelous evocation of
Hollywood
. What’s interesting about
Hollywood
is that she’s beautiful and odious at the same time.” A camera’s flash blinded Alex for a moment, then he continued. “In
Day of the Locust
, people come to
Hollywood
to find their dreams. The people have no genuine purpose, no genuine spirit, and so they hope to find it in
Hollywood
. Of course,
Hollywood
‘s spirit is artificial. If
Hollywood
is a church, it is the church you find on movie lots: two-dimensional. The front looks like a church, but behind it you find only two-by-fours, nails, carpenters and key grips.”

A young man with a platinum coiffure sighed. “You’re right, Alexander. But
My Life as a Dead Man
could be a huge hit.”

“Financial and artistic success are both desirable,” Alex conceded. “But they’re often mutually exclusive.” He accepted a slice of bread lightly covered in caviar. “Of course, there are exceptions.”

The veep agreed. “Our company is well connected in Hollywood. We think
My Life as a Dead Man
could be a prestige project. Several studios are interested.”

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.” Alex smiled. “I’ll put my trust in you to field the best offers. You’re discreet and professional.” The veep nodded discreetly and professionally.

Several hours later, the party ended. The French woman, Simone, clasped Alex’s arm and guided him to the elevator. The elevator whisked them to the top of the skyscraper, and they entered an apartment with a sunken living room and loft bedrooms. Hand in hand, they walked to the window, which reached from floor to ceiling.

“New York is so lovely from forty floors up,” the woman remarked. “Lovely.” “You must feel wonderful tonight, very high. Forty floors for you, it is nothing. Tell me, how did you come to write such a book?”

“It took a long time.” Alex narrowed his eyes. “My career was dead. I had to start over.

“Rebuild?”

“Re-invent myself. I studied people, examined them, saw what their best qualities were. I’m self-made. I decided what qualities I needed to write again, and I pursued them until I had them.”

Simone stroked Alex’s hair. “You are fascinating.”

“If you don’t stop flattering me,” he laughed, “I might start believing you.”

He took her in his arms. She leaned back, neck exposed, in romantic surrender. Alex carried her up the stairs to a bed.

“Oh, but you’re a clever fellow,” she sighed. Her thighs squeezed Alex’s roving hand.

He undressed her slowly, pausing to unhook her black lace brassiere with his teeth. Simone took a knife from the dresser and cut a line across her chest, from nipple to nipple.

“Wouldn’t you like to lick it?” she whispered.

Alex woke at 4:30. The dream had been so pleasant, and like a child he wished that the dream would come true. He wondered who Simone might be. He recalled no French women. And he had never been in a
Manhattan
high-rise with black suits, black dresses, and black grand pianos. And had never seen, nor thought of, the title
My Life as a Dead
Man
.
But he liked the ring of it.

Most of his dreams were irritating reminders of childhood and David. David, who always smiled that condescending smile and insisted that Alex could improve.

“You can retain the center,” David asserted. The assertion eventually became a chant. “Regain the center!” David said, hands on young Alex’s shoulders. “Now you say it.”

“Regain the center,” Alex had grudgingly repeated, chafing at David’s smugness.

“Regain the center, regain the schmenter,” Alex now smirked. He rose and washed his face. His lips were sore, and he remembered having cracked lips as a teenager. The dry mouth and lips, side effects of the anti-psychotics, had been a bad sign. Alex had learned that if his mouth was dry, the drugs would soon drag him up the tunnel toward glaring light and clamorous voices. And so he had to face his family, endure their talk around the dinner table, suffer their searching faces. The Center was where those repulsive emotions, voices, and expectations lived.

But now, years later, the dry lips were a good sign: the haloperidol was working. And the Center did not frighten Alex. He existed beyond its expectations, its repulsive emotions, its ugly brightness, and he could not be dragged back in.

Alex realized that he felt better this afternoon than he had felt in months. The pharmacist’s good blood and good medicine were a tonic. He was frisky and wanted some fun: Bruno must have been, in his natural life, a high-spirited fellow.

Alex drove north on 10 for three hours. Each hour, he swallowed a haloperidol and sipped bottled water. The rhythm of tires along road pleased him and added to his good mood. He turned on the radio and hummed along with country tunes.

At nine o’clock, the news reported a tragedy:

“Police are investigating a murder and fire in Portage, Michigan just west of Kalamazoo. According to police, the owner of an Apex pharmacy was murdered shortly after closing. Two hours later in Portage, a house fire claimed the life of Sherman Park and a sheriff’s policeman. The police believe the robbery and fire are connected. Sergeant William Mathis states that Mr. Park called police to report a home invasion and possible fire. When police arrived on the scene, the home was engulfed in flame. The van of the slain officer was parked in front of the flaming house, and police found several capsules of an anti-depressant drug in the van.”

Alex congratulated himself for thinking of leaving a few pills in the cop’s van. He was setting the table perfectly.

The blue neon sign—”Cal Clyde’s Elks Lounge and NiteSpot”—flickered erratically, as if drunk. The NiteSpot was a cinder block dump with fake log cabin trim, torn awnings, and a gravel parking lot. Alex pulled a greasy denim jacket from the trunk and put it on. He also put on a floppy cowboy hat and filmy reading glasses.

Alex ambled in, cigarette dangling. The joint was jumping. The bar was on the right, and nearly every stool was taken. The customers drank, belched, smoked, and swore. The bartender was thin and wore a white blouse and blue jeans; her dyed black hair was decorated with a red ribbon. Eight scarred wooden booths leaned against the left wall, where the occupants necked or bellyached.

Alex took the stool at the end of the bar. In the back, a country and western band acknowledged tepid applause before launching into “How Much I Lied”. The singer forgot the lyrics whenever he tried to strum his six string.

“What’s yer pleasure tuhnot?” the bartender asked.

“Laht beer and uh glayas,” Alex replied through his nose. He drank and smoked silently, casing the joint. The cash register was old fashioned: no electronic keypad or digital display. After a couple beers, Alex walked to the back of the bar, pretending to use the washroom. The washrooms faced one another in a short hallway, and the emergency exit was at the hallway’s end.

“How’s about another beer?” Alex asked the bartender. She had been busy with a drunken customer whom she refused to serve further.

The woman pushed a gray strand of her black hair from her forehead. “Sorry. That jerk there’s had too much too drink.”

“Well, as long as he pays for it,” Alex remarked.

“But he can get killed if he goes out drivin’ after drinkin’ like he has.”

“And then he’d sue ya,” Alex added sympathetically.

“If a dead man could, he would.” The bartender laughed. Her dentures slipped, and her smile was all gums.

The man beside Alex said, “That drunk’s a prick.”

 
“A prick?”

“A prick.” The customer thoughtfully stroked his ragged black beard. “Last year, he smashed up a new Ford Ranger on county road 8, up by Petosky. Ran over three mailboxes and landed upside down in a ditch.”

“Lucky to be alive,” Alex suggested.

“Agreed. But the prick managed to scramble outta that truck and run away before the sheriff came.”

“That prick,” the bartender continued, “left his wife in the truck to fend for herself.”

“And so she divorced him and got child support. The kid was left behind in the truck too, did I tell you? But half the time now he don’t pay his child support. And of course, he’s got another brand new Ford Ranger. It’s jet black and has a CB, I mean a CD player.”

Alex leaned forward and looked lengthwise down the bar to get a better look at the prick. He was skinny, with a bobbing Adam’s apple and arms thin as pipe cleaners. He was resting his forehead atop an empty beer glass.

“I think he sells dope since he lost his job. I see he’s got some cow with him tonight,” the bartender said. She wrinkled her nose and tended to her other customers.

Alex looked at the prick’s companion. She outweighed the prick by fifty pounds. Her hair was dyed the color of straw, and her face was burnt red from a sunlamp. She was letting the prick drink her beer. He lapped at the beer as a dog laps at water.