Duncan's Diary (9 page)

I finally arrived home, hearing Delilah barking in the back yard. She must have heard me shut the front door and was most likely wondering where I had been. I rented a little two-bedroom in Burlingame after I split from my wife. It was right off of El Camino Real next to a church of some denomination unknown to me. The church actually owned the three houses on my block and rented them all. They were reserved for the pastor, but apparently he thought the homes were not quite up to his standard and preferred to live elsewhere.

It was a charming old house. The windows never really shut all the way so you had a constant breeze filtering its way throughout. I had purchased a bunch of used furniture on Craigslist and had made it into a casual, slightly modern place to hang out. My oldest daughter had a bedroom, and the little ones slept in the sunroom. The only down side was to get to the sunroom you had to pass through my older daughter’s room. She really did not like the intrusion of her sisters coming and going as she busily went about her 14-year-old activities.

I split custody with my wife 50/50. I have the kids two days a week, and she has the kids two days a week. We split three-day weekends every other weekend. While it sounds reasonable, it was hell on the kids being transported back and forth. My wife would not listen to any other option. Once she made her mind up, there was no swaying her—so why try? Probably the biggest reason I am no longer married to her is because she is neurotic about having things her own way. Then somehow she twists the blame back to me when things go wrong. She is like an evil little psychotic yo-yo.

I stripped off my clothes and headed directly to the shower. I was still shaking uncontrollably and did not possess the ability to stop myself. It was a miracle that I had made it home at all. I turned on the hot water full blast, quickly adjusted the temperature to a reasonable level, and jumped in. The warm, caressing water did manage to calm me down, but I was not able to fully relax. There is something so therapeutic about the steam of a hot shower as the warm water runs over your body. After a long 20 minutes curled up on the bathtub floor, under the steady stream that washed away my concerns, I finally shut off the faucets and toweled off.

I went straight to bed, lying on my back staring up at the ceiling. It was off-white, and the walls were a slight taupe color. It was very similar to poop after you feed your baby a jar of ground-up turkey or some other unrecognizable meat product. I lay naked, vacantly transfixed on the painted drywall above. Not really sleeping, but not fully awake. My mind wandered to my three daughters and back to my childhood playing with my cousins to work issues and to my soon to be ex-wife. I hated her with a passion. I focused on anything other than Jill and what I had done. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that it was really me who had killed somebody.

It seems odd that the first person I murdered I didn’t actually see die. I wondered if Jill did die. I was not present for her death—was I actually a killer or was her death simply something that occurred? I did not stab her or shoot her or choke her with a rope. If she were smart enough, she should be able to escape. In truth, it was more her inadequacies that killed her. I didn’t feel like a killer, and I didn’t even see her die. I probably was not a killer at all.

Is the president a killer if he orders the deaths of several people in an air raid? Should I be punished any more severely than he, as he is not punished at all? I was struggling to see the difference. My mind, then, began another journey, and I started thinking about an attractive girl I used to work with. She was Asian and very thin. She had nice, dark skin, but her face was still prone to acne even at her age, which my guess was late 20’s at the time. I am not sure why I started thinking about her, but I had a huge crush on her and often fantasized what her tight, small, perky breasts must look like underneath the form fitting shirts she wore. It was the schoolboy kind of crush where my tongue would fold up every time she was around, not allowing me to form words. My palms would become sweaty when I saw her in the hallway. I would have easily slept with her had I been given the chance. I later found out that would have been a mistake. She had a severe case of herpes. Can you imagine my trying to explain to my wife how I contracted herpes during our marriage?

I wondered if Jill had any sexual issues. I had made love to her without any protection. How was I to know what kind of person she was? I remembered hearing that when you sleep with somebody it is as if you slept with anyone and everyone she has. I started thinking about her husband and his lover. How many people had they slept with? How could I have not used protection? The last thing I needed was to catch herpes or syphilis or God forbid something worse. Six degrees of separation is a real pain in the ass.

I turned on the light and examined my body for any signs of infection or a small opening that might have allowed the entry of a virus. Not having ever done this before, I was not sure what I was looking for. I decided to get my laptop, go online, and do some research. I was appalled by the pictures of sexually transmitted diseases that popped up.  Syphilis is a horrid disease, but there is a cure. It is simple to rid yourself of it once you have contracted it. The key is to catch it quickly. Apparently, I was to look for a small, reddish sore that resemble a pimple. If not treated this pimple would grow into a much larger, puss-oozing sore that would not hurt, but was disgusting to look at. The sore itself is whitish, surrounded by a reddish encrusted border, which continually oozes a puss-like substance.

I moved into the bathroom and started the exam all over again to take advantage of the higher wattage bulb. I hoped a more thorough viewing might put my mind at ease. I carefully looked through my nicely manicured hair between my legs, being careful to slowly and systematically review every square inch. As I painstakingly performed my physical, I did notice a very small red bump in the upper-right section of my pelvic area just below the midpoint of my torso. It was bright red, like a ripe tomato, and about the size of a fourth of a raisin. I had never noticed this before, but that is not to say it could not have been there. I had never given myself an exam of this nature.

I couldn’t handle this. It was Saturday night, and I went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of scotch with a few ice cubes. I gulped down the first glass and poured another. This one took a bit longer to digest; and by the end of it, I was starting to relax a little. I just had to get my act together.

On Monday morning I called my doctor first thing at 9 a.m. I told the receptionist it was an emergency, and I had to see my doctor that day as soon as possible. I was told that 11:30 a.m. was the earliest appointment, but she would fit me in at that time. I had spent the rest of the weekend doing continual examinations. My pattern was to do my self-exam and find a spot or an issue that concerned me. I would then look at pictures online of all the possible outcomes, drink two or three glasses of scotch, and start the process over again once I sobered up. By Monday morning, I was a complete psychotic mess.

Getting through the waning hours beginning the day while pretending to work was difficult, but I tried to be my normal flirtatious self. For a corporate accounting geek, I was always told that I was quite forward with most of the women that I came into contact with in the work environment. There was one girl specifically that was drop-dead gorgeous. She had a dark-skinned, creamy complexion and had an angelic personality. Late 20’s, long, black hair, she shifted between being about 10 pounds overweight to perfectly fit. Currently, she was leaning more toward the perfection mode. She was full-figured, despite that fact that she was only 5’0”. To top all of this off, she was the nicest, most pleasant person you could be around. I often told her that her biggest issue in life was going to be that she was too perfect. How or why she was not already married was beyond my ability to understand. I would marry her right now if she would have me, but I seem to say that about a lot of women.

I made my usual morning stopover to say hi on the way to my office. Made the normal pleasantries – “how was your weekend,” “fine,” etc. I finally arrived at my brightly lit home away from home and turned on my computer. Once settled, I headed off to the bathroom for ,yet, another self-examination and the ensuing panic attack that came shortly thereafter. I had managed to discover two red spots that seemed worrisome and one dark spot that very closely resemble a mole. I was interested in the different perspective that the changed lighting at my work bathroom would give me and my problem.

Lighting can alter your perspective drastically, given the different wattages, different types of bulbs, and even placement. It is like that
Seinfeld
episode where the lady looks gorgeous one time only to look horrible a few hours later due to the effects of lighting. It makes you appreciate the lighting crew on movie sets a little more. They have a tougher job than anyone gives them credit for, in my opinion.

God, I wish that I could have a drink right now. I muddled through the next couple of hours, then, headed off to see my doctor, which was a quick 15-minute drive away.

My doctor was a petite Jewish woman who had a practice with her father and two other physicians. She was a smallish woman, about 5’3”, with brown hair, and she was well-rounded. Not what I would define as fat, but round. She was very pleasant and matter of fact. She had been a referral from my boss two jobs ago, and I had kept her as I moved on now three jobs into our relationship. She was reasonable and knew me well as I had been visiting her for more than 10 years. I went into the building, strolled up to the desk, noticing the normal clientele of three people all in their 70’s sitting in the waiting room. Have you ever observed that every time you go for a doctor’s visit almost everyone waiting for their appointment is 60-plus-years-old? My guess is that you must spend half of your retirement years trying to extend your life as long as you possibly can. Is it the older age that drives the smell in the waiting room, as well, or is it simply the smell of sickness and decay? It is an aroma of sweetness, but not like candy. As if something you know is rotting, but still has a semblance of its former wholeness.

I signed in as instructed with my name and time of entry and the mundane admitting lady asked me what the appointment was in regards to. I had no idea how to respond to the inquiry, so I simply said it was a private matter I would only talk to the doctor about. She looked at me as if I had the plague and ushered me to my seat with a brushed-off wave of her hand. What was I supposed to tell her, that I was afraid my penis might be falling off due to my odd activity the last few days?

Twenty-five minutes later, I was ordered into the examination room and told to wait yet again. A few moments later the doctor came in and sat down on her rolling stool. She navigated toward me and directly asked what the issue was. I explained to her that I had been with another woman, and I was now concerned that I might have contracted a STD. I was not familiar with how to know for sure, I told her, as I had never been exposed to this type of thing before. She went through the list of standard questions, how was my marriage, how were the kids, how was my personal health, did I have smoke detectors in my house, etc. Why does a doctor ask me if I have smoke detectors in my house? That seems like such an odd, random question as I wait to bend over and grunt like a stuck pig.

Once the questionnaire was filled in completely she asked me to drop my pants and show me the focus of my concern. I reservedly did so and pointed out the two reddish sores and the brown one, while trying to control the shaking feeling that I was able to contain mentally but barely control physically. She went through her examination, looking at the spots, adjusting my member back and forth with her latex-covered cold fingers. She, then, asked me to raise my pants.

She informed me that the two red spots were something called “cherry moles” and that I most likely had them all over my body. I guess they are quite common. As she was talking to me, she spotted one on my arm. “See you have one here, as well,” she commented. The brown spot was, indeed, a mole, and I had nothing to worry about.

She asked me if I had any painful urination or severe itching, which I happily responded to her I had not. She stated that I seemed fine, most likely had no issues. She advised me to try and refrain from any activity that would cause me concern or worry going forward. I agreed and left.

I only wish that this would have been the end and my mind would have returned peacefully back into place. Unfortunately, this did not happen. I returned to work that day and was fine for the next couple of days. By Thursday morning, I noticed another spot and began to panic, yet again. I spent the next four weeks visiting my doctor once each week for a spot on any part of my body that I felt might be some form of STD. I had blood tests taken for every STD that I could think of and that my doctor would allow me to take. Everything came back negative. At one point I walked into the doctor’s office and the generic admitting lady simply responded to me by saying “You will be happy to know your tests are negative.” I think everyone in the office thought I was crazy, and at this point they were most likely correct.

During the last visit with my doctor, she asked me if a visiting physician could sit in on my examination. She stated that he was evaluating her examining skills as part of her ongoing education requirements. She hoped it would be ok if he listened as she discussed things with me. A very short five minutes into our dialogue on my current issue, I figured out he was a psychologist. He was spending more time asking me questions and writing down notes than he was observing my doctor. It was at that point I decided I really needed to move on. The only way for me to do that was to go back to Twain Harte and bring closure to the entire issue. That meant disposing of whatever was left of Jill. God, I thought I would throw up right there in her office.