A Self Made Monster (7 page)

“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!’”

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 all 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.”