A Self Made Monster (25 page)

Jimmy inserted the cigarette into his left nostril. “I’ve got the test.” The cigarette tip glowed, and smoke streamed from his right nostril.

“Sure. The janitor gave it to you, right?”

“Sort of.” Jimmy removed a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. “When the janitor straightened up the desk, he must have re-arranged the papers or something. The funny thing is that I messed up the desk. I’d just started looking through the papers, then decided to look in the wastepaper basket when Resartus came in.”

Jimmy removed the cigarette from his left nostril and inserted it into the right. “Anyway, there it was on top of the desk. I helped myself to a blank sheet of paper and copied it.”

“You’re a genius.”

“Don’t I get a thank you?”

Holly’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you.”

“Now we’re in a pact. We have to seal the pact by—”

“Fat chance,” Holly blurted.

 
“—by sharing a cigarette.” Jimmy removed the cigarette from his nostril and held it, little finger extended, in front of Holly.

“I will not.”

“Then you won’t see the test.”

Holly wanted to scream. But before she could sicken herself with the thought, she took the cigarette.

She coughed and gagged, but she finished the cigarette.

“Want to study together?” Jimmy asked. He had been daydreaming about an all-night study session: Holly yawns, stretches, and rests her head on Jimmy’s lap. Jimmy gently changes positions and rests his head between her breasts.

“No.”

He snorted like a petulant twelve-year-old.

She did not look up from the test, but she pointed at her notebook. “You can copy my notes, though.”

“You’re a real bitch sometimes.”

“Thank you for noticing.”

Edward had hoped to find Holly in the union, trying to bum class notes from more serious students. He wanted to follow up on their phone conversation and make sure she was attending his party. He had not expected to see her sitting with Stubby Jimmy.

Then it made sense: Stinking Jim had locked Edward in his apartment; Stinking Jim had turned off his power and re-routed his mail; Stinking Jim had sent him the lesbian porno. Edward wanted to punch him. But then again, Jimmy was dealing Holly just as he was dealing Holly. Each used any available advantage. All’s fair, etc.

What the hell? he thought. Why not invite him to the party and turn the tables on him?

Coffee cup in hand, Edward strode to the table.

Holly saw him approaching. She quickly folded the test and slipped it into a textbook.

Jimmy groaned as Edward pulled up a chair.

“It’s you,” Jimmy remarked.

“Indeed.” Edward glanced at the notes. “Buckling down for Resartus’s test?”

“No,” Jimmy said. “This stuff is just so interesting that we study it for fun.”

“A scholar!”

“Enough, you guys.” Holly tried to sound irritated. She enjoyed the sniping: Edward and Jimmy were like two inept roosters strutting to impress the hen.

“I suppose you’re ready for the test,” Jimmy said to Edward.

“Pretty much.”

He winked at Holly. “Quick, Jimmy. What author made stream of consciousness a credible technique?”

To hide his ignorance, Jimmy played dumb. “What’s the name of that river, I mean stream?”

“Out of time!” Edward imitated the electronic buzzer on a game show and turned to Holly. “The answer?”

“Stop,” Holly whined. “I’m not ready for this.”

“Give us the answer,” Jimmy ordered.

“I’ll tell you Saturday night.”

“Saturday?”

“I’m having a party Saturday night, and you’re invited.”

Holly raised her eyebrows.

“The exam’s on Thursday,” Jimmy sneered. “Saturday’s a little late for the answer.”

“If I tell you, will you come to my party? Holly’s coming, aren’t you?”

Jimmy glared at Holly. “You are?”

“Sure. It’s fun to kick back and enjoy a few brews. Besides, the last big frat parties are Friday night.”

Edward ignored the barb. “Bring a friend along. I’m supplying the liquor.”

Jimmy accepted the invitation. “Now tell me who the author is.” When Holly snickered at his bad manners, Jimmy did his best to smile without sarcasm.

“Thanks for the invite. I’ll even bring a bottle. Now please tell me.”

“Ross Perot.”

“You’re a sport, Ed Head,” Jimmy smiled.

Edward nodded and left the table. He had to invite two more guests.

Alex was laboring over a chapter of
My Life as a Dead Man
when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch: quarter to eleven. Who would call at this hour?

“Professor Resartus?” The voice was hard with anxiety.

“I think so.”

The laughter was forced, but Alex recognized the voice: the voice of his Savior.

“This is Edward Head. I’m in your 2:00 modern literature course.”

“I agree. Do you need an extension on the final paper?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m calling to invite you to a party. A little gathering to celebrate the end of the school year.”

“That’s very thoughtful.” Alex rarely received such invitations, which suited him. But his instincts told him to accept. Fate was dealing Alex a full house. He only had to play his hand shrewdly. “When do these festivities begin?”

“Saturday at eight thirty. Nothing elaborate. Just a few people.” Edward could not truthfully call his guests “friends.” Perhaps after the party.

“Good. I prefer small groups.”

“Then you’ll come?”

“I’d be honored.”

“Great. I’ll give you directions after the final exam.”

“On Wednesday.”

“On Thursday,” Edward gently corrected.

“Of course. I guess I’ve been working too hard.”

“Yes, professor.” Edward remembered Alex’s minor breakdown in front of Claire and him. “I look forward to seeing you Saturday.”

“And I you.”

Alex thought longingly of Edward Head’s blood. He needed a plan, and he needed it now. His months of scheming were coming to a head. After an hour of pacing and planning, he was tired. He needed inspiration.

He went for a drive.

By 12:45 a.m., Alex had found a target. A new Holiday Inn had been built across town, off 1-55, and the cocktail lounge was already popular. Alex parked at the farthest end of the lot, hidden from view by two dumpsters.

A red pick-up looked interesting, but the door was locked. Alex did not want to risk forcing the car open because it was too close to the entrance. He scanned the other cars.

A new Camaro caught his eye. Alex approached casually. A lovely break, he thought: the driver’s side door was open.

He crept into the back and got as comfortable as he could, hunched over behind the front seat. He waited. With nothing else to do, he resumed thinking of ways to murder Edward Head.

A half a pack of cigarettes later, the driver’s door swung open and the driver hesitated—Alex wondered if the driver had somehow seen him. Then Alex heard the scratchings of a stubborn match. A man eased into the car, cigarette in mouth. He won’t even notice all my cigarette smoke, Alex thought.

But he did.

“Son of a bitch! Caught you in the act!”

Alex smiled dumbly, as if only half-aware that he was caught.

“You made a big mistake.” The driver slapped his thigh, as if enjoying a joke. He reached over and pulled up the car thief by the hair. “My name’s
Wayne
,” the man announced. “I’m takin’ you to the police station. But first I’m gonna pound the shit out of you.”

Wayne
‘s right hand nearly encircled Alex’s neck.

“Christ, you’re strong!” Alex remarked.
Wayne
‘s forearm was thick as a thigh.

“State lifting champ, 1995. I coach at
Illinois
State
part-time.” With a grunt, he pulled Alex halfway over the seat.

Alex was amused.
Wayne
‘s strength gave him a hint of what his own victims must feel.

“I’ve never lifted weights,” Alex admitted.

“I believe it, you skinny shit. I don’t think you could pop a grape.” Wayne pulled Alex further. Alex’s face was soon on the floor, and his trunk and legs were draped awkwardly across the passenger seat.

“Do you have a gun or knife?” Wayne demanded.

“No, but you can frisk me.”

“Are you a faggot?”
Wayne
roared.

“Afraid to frisk me?”

Wayne
started the car and raced the engine dramatically. Over the roaring of the engine, he yelled at Alex. ‘“I’m not gonna take you to the police, you pussy. I’m gonna take you for a rougher ride.” He raced out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

Alex pulled himself upright. He settled into the passenger seat and put a cigarette in his mouth. “Got a light?”

“Shut up!”

Wayne
slapped Alex, but Alex only smiled, then casually depressed the car’s cigarette lighter. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard until the lighter popped back, then lit the cigarette and stared at
Wayne
.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

“At the chest hair that curls over your tee shirt,” Alex laughed.

“Keep laughin’, faggot. Just wait.”
Wayne
drove alertly, with his left hand on the wheel and his right hand gripping Alex’s collar.

Three miles later,
Wayne
exited. He turned right and followed a pothole filled dirt road, then suddenly turned left onto a goat path. He drove for a mile and a half down a long-abandoned utility service road. Several times,
Wayne
gripped Alex’s collar harder; he was certain that Alex would panic and attack, or try to flee.

Wayne eased to a stop beside a scum-covered pond. On the pond’s weed-covered shore were several rusted “Polluted—No Swimming” signs.

“Get out of the car, faggot.”

“What’s with all this ‘faggot’ stuff?”

Wayne ignored him and pointed at the pond. The moon’s reflection had all the greasy colors of an oil slick. “Back in high school, the faggots used to come out here and blow each other. One time a bunch of us on the football team came out here. We made the faggots get on their hands and knees, then we beat ‘em like drums.” He smiled at the memory. “Ever since then, I don’t think anybody’s used this pond for anything but dumping.”

Alex yawned.

“Two of those faggots tried to get away. They came runnin’ up the hill—”
Wayne
nodded toward a grade thick with weeds—”and got into the car. I about shit. But we lucked out because the faggots’s car wouldn’t start!”

“Lucky break,” Alex noted.

“And tonight, my loose-assed friend, we are going to re-create that fine evening.”

Alex smiled through the smoke of another cigarette. “I can tell that night was the highlight of your high school career. Life has just never measured up since that night, has it?”

“Faggot car thieves shouldn’t talk so much. What were you gonna do, drive my car down to
Key West
and live on the beach with your boyfriends all summer?”
Wayne
slapped Alex hard, and his hand tingled with satisfaction.

“Ouch,” Alex offered.

Offended by Alex’s nonchalance,
Wayne
raised his fist. But before he could launch the blow, Alex slapped him. A sharp
schopp!
filled the car.
Wayne
grunted with surprise. The slap hurt.

Wayne
swung as hard as he could. Alex did not try to move, and as the blow landed
Wayne
thought, This dick smoker is out cold!

The blow landed. Nothing happened.

Wayne
stared. Alex returned the stare, eyes glassy with the excitement of the impending kill.

“You’re high on some kind of dope, my friend,” Wayne said, but the bravado had drained from his voice.

“Ever been fisted?”

Wayne tried to open the door, but Alex slapped him again. Wayne raised his hands, but he could not block the blows that tore through his inexplicably feeble guard. Wayne could not find his voice to even yell or plead. Or maybe he was screaming and could not hear over the slaps and the pain. He heard only the deafening blows—the sound penetrated his skull, which suddenly felt paper-thin.

He managed to open the door, falling out of the car onto the weeds and dirt. He lie on his back, staring at the stars. The stars were bright, a thousand suns.

Alex gripped
Wayne
’s skull and twisted.

The thousand suns were gone.
Wayne
’s face was mashed into the dirt and weeds. The sensations bewildered him: lying on his back, his face on the ground, he felt his spine twisting and splintering. He tried to move but could move only his toes.