A Self Made Monster (18 page)

Students furiously took notes, periodically pausing to shake their cramping hands. Others simply stared at Alex. His energy and organization shocked them.

His voice was effortlessly audible—in fact, it boomed. He gestured, he paused dramatically, he even abandoned his notes and offered a mini-lecture on Jean Paul Sartre, the existentialist philosopher: “…and many modern authors are inspired by Sartre’s novel
Nausea
, in which the protagonist viscerally confronts the pointlessness of his existence. Furthermore, the protagonist finds that…” And out poured a fraction of the countless hours of reading Alex had committed as a teen and young man, locked in a bedroom or exiled in an apartment, address unknown.

Alex picked up steam as the hour unfolded. As class was about to end, Alex stepped forward. “I’ve enjoyed this lecture tremendously, as I’m sure you have.”

The students grinned.

“You’re deserving of the great lecture I’ve given you. Let’s continue our quest for knowledge tomorrow. More excellence is in store for you.” A pause, a sporty loosening of the tie. “I’ll remember you in my next novel.” Alex strode from the room, grand as an Oxford don.

Jimmy smiled despite himself. He had almost enjoyed Alex’s lecture, and the hour had gone quickly.

He paused on his way out of the classroom, making way for Holly Dish. He had not spoken to her since he had stormed drunkenly into her room. She walked slowly, head down, mumbling.

“Go ahead and ignore me,” Jimmy said, impish. “You can go before me.” Jimmy bowed and extended his arm toward the door.

Holly was halfway down the hall when the lightbulb appeared and levitated over her head. The bulb was 250 watt, and it warmed Holly’s head.

“Hello Jimmy. Haven’t talked to you since you got drunk and got punched out.”

Jimmy smiled cautiously at Holly’s extended hand.

“Let’s forget about that night,” Holly suggested. “I was in a bad mood and you were smashed.”

“Yeah, you sure were a bitch,” Jimmy agreed. He gladly took Holly’s hand. Her physicality, blooming in the spring, made him itch.

Jimmy and Holly finished their third cup of coffee. The stimulation of the caffeine and their plan reduced them to giggling children. Or rather, Jimmy was reduced to a giggling child. The turn of events thrilled him. Holly Dish was sitting across from him, leaning forward and speaking low. Her large eyes, her round face framed with her new pageboy, her deep-dish tits—what a way to resume the semester.

Holly, a convincing actress, giggled along with Jimmy. She had to be convincing. Edward Shithead was suddenly making demands of Holly, and she did not give in to demands.

She should have sensed trouble immediately. After she returned from spring break Sunday afternoon, Holly called Edward about the Dylan Thomas paper. He said it was done, but he was busy and could not make the transaction. She said she would take the paper tonight and deliver her end another night. Edward refused and told her to call tomorrow.

She suspected that he was not done with the paper and called Monday afternoon.

“I’m here, and so’s the paper,” Edward remarked.

 
Holly arrived in fifteen minutes, resplendent in white body shirt and black slims.

“Here’s your essay,” Edward said. He was nude and held a stapled pile of pages in front of his groin, like a loincloth. “Come get it.”

“Is it good?”

“The paper or my sausage?”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. But I’ve got a bottle of Bleak House chilling in the ‘fridge.”

“I’d like to see the paper first.”

“Trust me—the paper’s good. Now step out of those slims.”

Holly wondered if Edward had a plan to counteract her plan. But she did not argue. She removed her body shirt, then purposely fumbled with the hooks of her brassiere. Her breasts were brazenly confident in their D cups, and Edward waited with half-open mouth and popping eyes.

The brassiere fell. Holly stepped forward, and she heard the rustle of the essay turned loincloth, covering Edward’s erection.

“Time out!” She grabbed the essay and tried to glance at the first page, but Edward mashed her mouth against hers. She dropped the essay; Edward tried to pull down her slims.

“Not here,” Holly said. Her protest was garbled because Edward’s tongue was tickling her tonsils.

Edward guided her into his bedroom. He had worked her slims halfway down her thighs. But Holly bowed her legs and the slims would descend no further.

“Lie down,” Holly ordered.

Edward obeyed.

She lowered herself onto Edward and pushed her breasts against his sunken chest. She suppressed a snicker at Edward’s erect nipples.

“It’s a very good paper,” Edward grunted. He gripped the back of Holly’s thighs, trying to force penetration.

“You don’t have on a shower cap,” Holly accused.

“I’ll be careful,” Edward whispered.

“I’m not going to be another knocked-up teenager who drops out of school then whines her whole life that the system kept her down.” She snorted in contempt, though Edward was not sure if the contempt was for him or the nation’s legion of knocked-up teenagers. “You’re putting on a rubber!” she ordered.

He scrambled to his dresser. In his excitement, he ripped a hole in the first condom. He got on the second one and turned to embrace Holly.

She was gone.

Edward looked through the doorway. Holly was hopping on one leg, pulling on her slims. He enjoyed the sight: her bouncing milk-white breasts, the essay hanging from her clenched teeth.

“I wish my camera was filming this,” Edward said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb.

“I have to go.” The essay dropped from her mouth. She retrieved it and hurried toward the door. “I’ll be back—I just have to make sure the essay is good.”

“You’ve got the wrong one,” Edward shouted.

Holly was already half way to her car. She returned with slow, heavy steps. “Did I hear you correctly?”

“That’s the first draft. I have the final draft in my bedroom.”

Holly scanned the first few sentences. “Looks okay to me. You’re trying to trick me.”

“I had to have a backup plan.” He shrugged. “I know you think I’m a geek, or butt spray, or something really gross. I knew you’d try to get out of it.”

Holly was reading page two. With each sentence, her jaw grew harder. “You grease spot! This looks like it was written by a seventh-grader.”

“I agree. I tried to make it dumb.” He crossed the room, took the essay from Holly. “Dylan Thomas is really a good poet,” Edward read. “His poems are filled with deep meanings. He’s got lots to say. One of them is called ‘Alterwise By Owlight.’ It’s very deep with lots of meaning. Another good one is ‘If I Were Tickled by the Rub of Love.’ It’s about a metaphor.” Edward paused. “And the spelling errors! I even spelled ‘Dylan’ as ‘Dillon’ a few times.”

“Buttspray!”

“If you want the final version—” Edward nodded toward the bedroom door. “You’ll have to spool me ten times.”

Holly rolled her eyes.

“Once for each page.”

“I’d fuck a dyke first,” Holly declared.

“Once for each page,” Edward calmly repeated.

Now, sitting with Jimmy, Holly told her story, though she changed some details. For instance, she told Jimmy that she had merely asked Edward to type and proofread her work, and to insure the citations and bibliography were correct. “It’s the same thing as an editor does with a writer’s manuscript,” she explained. Edward, she said, announced that he needed more money—or a week of Holly-spooling. “Can you believe that jerk’s nerve?” Holly complained.

Jimmy admired the jerk’s nerve. “Turn him into the witches in the Feminist Studies department.” He laughed. “They’ll tar and feather him.”

“Nah, it’s not worth it. I got the draft back. But I need to find a typist fast.” Jimmy wondered if he could learn to type in a day or two.

“Can you type?”

“Yes.” Jimmy now wondered whom he could pay to type.

Reconsidering, Holly pursed her lips. “Thanks anyway. I can get it done myself.” She saw the disappointment darken Jimmy’s eyes. Now was the moment. “Did you understand one thing Resartus said today?”

“Sort of. He said that a guy wrote
Nausea
and that life is meaningless. And that’s what inspires writers to write.”

“My existence will be meaningless if I don’t ace his final.” Holly slouched in the booth, wearily pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “If it wasn’t cheating, I swear—What am I saying? I must be really desperate.” She finished her cold coffee with a smile.

“What have you got in mind?”

Holly leaned forward, close enough to see Jimmy’s nose hairs. “I’d feel a lot better about this class if I knew what was on the final.”

“I agree. We’ve got about six weeks to make a plan.”

“I wish I had some ideas.”

“I’ve got some. Let’s talk on Wednesday after class.”

Jimmy marveled at the difference seven hours can make. At 9:00 a.m., he had suffered through his classes and winced at the thought of another month and a half of classes. Now, at 4:00 p.m., he was euphoric. He looked forward to each remaining day, for each day was another day in which he had control. Tomorrow he would begin Plan A by casing the
Academic
Center
.

But tonight he started plan Plan B: the harassment of Ed Shithead. The gall of that pencilneck, demanding that Holly spool him for typing a paper! Jimmy hated Edward for being gutsy enough to even try it. If Jimmy was going to spool Holly Dish—his belated New Year’s resolution—he had to work quickly.

Jimmy got to work on Plan B—which he called Operation Shitstorm—with high enthusiasm. He consulted the phone book and found Edward Head’s number and address. Next, he called the phone company.

“This is Tracy. How may I help you?”

“Good morning. My name is James Head, and I need to talk with someone about customer service.” Jimmy spoke in a raspy, authoritative voice, aided by a filterless cigarette.

“I can help you, sir.”

“My son Edward is a
Tailor
College
student. He’s had to leave school early this semester because of illness. Shingles, in fact. I’m calling his utility companies to discontinue services.”

“What is his phone number and address?”

Jimmy told her.

“Very good, sir. Service will be terminated at the end of the business day.”

“You’ve been very helpful.”

Turning off Edward’s phone was so easy that Jimmy cut classes the next day to devise another prank. He walked downtown to the hardware store for supplies. On the way back, he stopped by the post office and asked the clerk for a change-of-address form. The clerk smilingly gave the form to Jimmy; she even noted that he could fill it out later and drop it in any mailbox.

“That’s pretty convenient,” Jimmy beamed. “But I’ll do it right here.”

“Whatever you prefer.”

 
“Thank you.”

He jotted Edward Head’s name and address into the “Old Address” section. In the “New Address” section, he wrote “
120 Oak Street
.” Next he opened the zip code directory and randomly chose a town and zip code:
St. John
,
Indiana
. 46373.

“Thanks again,” Jimmy told the clerk. He departed whistling.

Each morning, Holly Dish stood nude before the mirror. She placed her hands flat against her belly, pushed out her breasts as a GI pushes out the chest, and commenced inspection. On some mornings, her thighs seemed fleshy. On other mornings, the shadow of a spare tire seemed to darken her abdomen.

This morning, Holly the Trainer could find no faults. She was pleased by her abdomen’s tightness, by her skin’s smoothness. She remembered Edward Head squeezing her hips and stroking her concave belly.

She laughed at her control over him.

But he had laughed at his control over her. He distrusted her enough to write a phony essay. Perhaps he had planned to sleep with her the rest of the semester, demanding sex for each page. Or paragraph. Or word. His yellow fingers on her creamy shoulders, his yeast-coated tongue on her lips…She closed her eyes and shook away the images.

Holly returned to her reflection. Her stomach and thighs had responded well to her spring break regimen. First, a three mile run in the morning. For breakfast, a bowl of Fiber Feast, a cored apple, a cup of strained peaches, and iced tea. For lunch, a patty of tuna on toast, and water. For dinner, either a bowl of boiled pasta (no oil or margarine) and salad, or a skinless baked chicken breast and baked potato (no oil or margarine).

Following dinner, Holly grunted out fifty stomach crunches, sixteen one-armed pushups (eight an arm), and thirty leg raises. The leg raises were performed with ten pound ankle weights. The pain nearly made her weep. Before bedtime, Holly jogged for a mile. She thought of spring as a runner thinks of a big race. The gun had been fired, and the race was on.