The Monster

THE MONSTER

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He carefully sipped his steaming hot coffee. Strong as Sampson, black as the world inside his heart.

From his vantage point near the door of the coffee shop, facing the counter, yet with a clear view of the door, he patiently awaited the next contestant. Hours passed as puffy soccer moms and slatternly sorority girls paraded by. An old woman, her face stretched tighter than a trampoline and pumped full of botulism, waltzed past, a rock the size of Gibraltar on her finger. He was supremely indifferent.

Just as he was finishing his last refill, a suitable candidate appeared. Her russet hair was cut in a stylish bob. Clear blue eyes above her aristocratically high cheekbones. Just the faintest hint of freckles on her nose. Her long, black behosed legs were wrapped in a tight skirt. She would do nicely. She slowly surveyed the room, looking through him as if he were made of glass. He could feel the flush on his cheeks, his pulse quickening. Other substances coiled about inside his body secretly, doing the devil’s business.

He went outside while she was paying. Since she had come in from the right, it was better than even money she would go back that way. He walked the half block to the newsstand. He pretended to be engrossed in the current issue of Psychology Today.

She strode past, his back to her. He counted three, sat down his reading material and walked a few paces behind her. She was absorbed by her cell phone call, her mellifluous voice wafting towards the skies. He took in the full measure of her suggestively swinging hips, then checked to see if anyone was around. As she walked past the alley he pushed her as hard as he could into the alley wall. She smacked into it hard and dropped her cell phone, but to his surprise, she didn’t fall. A sharp left to the jaw and a right in the solar plexus corrected that. As she lay doubled over and gasping for breath he carelessly kicked her cell phone down the alley, grabbed her by the hair and dragged her near where her phone had landed. He bent over her, placed a hand over her mouth and showed her his boning knife. Her eyes grew wide.

She could see him now.

He marveled at the blueness of those eyes, like a vast sea he could easily fall into and drown. But such romanticism was not to be, there was work to do.

Deftly, in an almost workaday fashion, he flipped her over, placing his knee in the small of her back, keeping her mouth covered. He placed the blade against her neck and said,

“And now, for the really big prize—your life—answer this one simple question. Are you nervous?” He joked in his best game show host voice.

“Mmmfffmphmm.”

“Alright then, here it is. At the end of every episode of the Flintstones, the family goes to a drive-in movie, and they drive right past the marquee. What is the name of the movie the Flintstones go to see?”

He began to softly hum the final Jeopardy theme. Her lovely legs flailed helplessly.

“Dum. Dum. What is your final answer?”

He moved his hand just enough for her to pant, “Please let me…”

“I’m sorry, but that is incorrect.”

As her lifeblood drained onto the dirty pavement, he leaned over and gently, lovingly, whispered the answer into her ear.

He stood up and looked down on her.

Her eyes were again unseeing.
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Five or six years old. Waking in the middle of the night because his bed is cold and wet. He climbs into bed with his sleeping mother and snuggles against her bedwarmed flesh. She rolls over, feels him and wakes up.

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in your bed?”

“It’s cold.”

“What? Why are your jammies wet?” Her voice rising. “You better not have wet your bed again!”

“I can’t help it mommy, I’m asleep.”

“Get up! Get out of my bed you filthy little piggy!”

She dragged him roughly down the hall to his room. “Get back in bed.” She commanded.

“But…but…”

“NOW!”

He climbed back into the wet bed as she stormed off toward her sewing room. She suddenly reappeared with something in her hand. “I’ll make sure you don’t do that again, you dirty little pig!” She pulled down his pants and set to work, chanting “Dirty little pig! Dirty little pig!”

He awoke with a start. Another dream. He felt a tingling sensation south of the equator. His carefully slid his hand down there to see…and breathed a sign of relief. It was not wrapped in scotch tape.
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We are young. Splat. No one can tell us we’re wrong. Splat. His downward thrust split the carcass perfectly. Working steadily, in rhythm with the music, he took great pride in his work. Searchin’ our hearts for…. A tap on his shoulder broke his cadence. It was the slaughterhouse shift supervisor.

“I’ve told you before that you’ve got to work faster.”

“And I’ve told you before that it’s faster overall to do it right the first time. No one ever has to redo what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care, you’re going to go faster or I’ll write you up—get it?”

Their eyes met for a moment, the supervisor turned away, mumbling.

He turned back to his work, replacing and cranking his headphones.

--Stupid-ass college jerk. One of these days.

Love is a battlefield. Splat.
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He switched on the game show channel. Card sharks. His mind wandered over the events of the last few days. Those stupid….She’s playing! He jumped to his feet and quickly stripped nude. He pressed himself against the wall that had her piano against it on the other side, so he could feel the music. Euphoria swept over him. His mind was utterly blank, the music cascading over him, a waterfall of ecstasy. As her hands poured her talent into the keyboard, he absorbed the rapturous vibrations. No anger or pain or resentment, only beauty and purity. This was the only time he did not ache.

As the final notes slowly died out, he peeled himself off of the wall, dripping in sweat. There was a faint outline on the wall, the residue of many such pressings.

He had an erection you could drive nails with.
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Dreams swirled in his head. Not long after the bedwetting incident. Mama was watching game shows when his slipped into her bedroom. He silently closed the door behind him and crept over to Mama’s jewelry box. He slowly opened the lid and was transfixed by the tinkling music that softly came from the box. A lone ballerina, mostly pink except where her paint had been lost to posterity, slowly turned for his consideration. He marveled at her long black hair and clear blue eyes. Her skin was whiter than milk. On previous visits he had wondered if she ever got lonely, being inside the box most of the time. She seemed so delicate and graceful, and just a little sad. He could feel the faint vibrations of the box in his small hand. It felt reassuring.

He pulled a small plastic soldier from his pocket and carefully placed it into the bottom of the box. He then covered the soldier with jewelry and replaced the box where it had been on the dresser.
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The neighbor girl stood waiting by her front door. He usually came home around now. When she heard his heavy tread upon the stairs, she went out into the hall like she was going out.

She had powdered and perfumed and shaved and even put on a little make-up. Her ill-fitting black dress was the best she had, but her decided plumpness still shone through. She had rehearsed this in her mind for weeks, even practicing in front of the mirror.

She pulled her door closed and gave him her best smile. He looked at her, nodded and kept going toward his apartment.

“Say, I heard they’re going to have a block party later this summer.” Was her ice-breaker.

“Oh.”

Think. Think.

“I don’t know how much fun it’ll be, but at least it’s something.”

He was putting his key in the lock. It’s now or never. She took a step toward him.

“I was wondering if you might like to go get some ice cream with me sometime.” She said hurriedly. “My treat.” She continued with a strained laugh. Her cheeks were glowing.

“I don’t know.” He replied slowly, not sure what it was she wanted.

She leaned against the wall, nervously running the back of her fingers up and down against it. She stared hard at the wall as she said,

“It just seems that we both spend our evenings alone, and I just thought maybe we could be alone together.”

--I can’t believe I just said that.

“I’m kind of seeing someone.” He lied while intently scrutinizing the top of his shoes.

“Really? I’ve never seen you with anyone.” She said with genuine surprise. That had never even occurred to her.

“You callin’ me a liar?” He intoned, looking at her sharply.

“Oh, no, not at all, I didn’t mean to…”

He softened a bit. “It’s alright.” He gave her a weak smile and went inside.

She slowly returned to her apartment, tears welling in her eyes.
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He starts to nod off after a long day. Song snippets, faces, blood both bovine and human, all moved through his mind as he drifted off. Walking through the front door after little league practice. Mother sitting on the sofa waiting for him. The girlie magazine he had shoplifted was on the coffee table. A pair of scissors lay on top of it.

“I found that dirty garbage in the bottom of your closet! Pictures of sluts and whores! How dare you bring that filthy trash into my house! Go to your room and change clothes, you nasty little boy!”

He made his way to his room, tears welling in his eyes, tasting the shame, choking on the embarrassment. He had removed his shoes when Mother appeared in the doorway with the scissors in her hand.

“I’ll fix you so that you never want to look at that dirty, filthy trash again!”

“Mama, please.”

“Take down your pants!”

“No, please, no.”

“NOW!”

He stood and pulled down his pants, trembling, tears streaming down his face. His mother opened the scissors and placed them against his scrotum.

“If you ever, ever do anything like that again, I swear I’ll cut it off!—I mean it, you dirty little piggy!” She punctuated her sentence with a sharp slap across his face.

He fell back across his bed in a wave of guilt and relief.
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He sat in the nearly deserted coffee shop. His mind wandered aimlessly. He recalled walking with a girl from down the street after school. He was maybe eleven or twelve. She was a bit older, much more worldly, already beginning to burst into full womanhood. As they walked past an abandoned house she suggested they go inside and explore. He hesitated, then followed her in, taking in the full measure of her suggestively swinging hips. They walked around the empty house looking at this and that, kicking pieces of trash about. He stopped to look inside a built-in cupboard. She stood so close to him he could feel her warm breath on his cheek. He turned to face her. She leaned closer, smiled a coquettish smile, tilted her head to the right a bit, and closed her eyes. After a few moments she opened her eyes in surprise.

“I thought you liked me.”

“I do.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh come on, don’t be so shy—you’ve kissed a girl before, right?”

“Oh sure, lots of times.” He lied while intently scrutinizing the top of his shoes.

“Then come on.” She purred, taking a step closer.

“My mom said that…”

“Your mom!” She laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She turned toward the door, still laughing. Then she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “I didn’t know you were such a mama’s boy.” She started toward the door again. She had taken two steps when he was on her. He spun her around and slapped her as hard as he could.

“Don’t ever say anything about my mama!” He shrieked, both hands around her neck. The bright red handprint on the left side of her face was being overtaken by the reddening of the rest of her face.

“Dirty little slut!” He chanted, angry and excited.

A well-placed knee to the crotch ended the throttling, but began his life in the juvenile justice system.
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She had just started playing when there was a loud banging on her door. He quickly dressed and crept over to his front door. He silently opened it a crack. The man from downstairs that lived under her was in the hall, yelling.

“Why you gotta play that goddam snooty-ass music?” Mr. Downstairs bellowed. “I’m sick to death a-hearin’ that crap!” “The next time I hear it, I’m callin’ the goddam landlord, ya hear me!”

She stood motionless, head down. He glowered at her for a moment more, then turned on his heel and strode towards the stairs, muttering. She softly closed her door. She slowly crossed the room. She could hear voices on the stairs. She sat down at her piano, running her hands over the keys without pressing them. As she closed the lid, she heard a soft knocking on the door.

It was Mr. Downstairs again.

“Oh my god!” She exclaimed. “What happened?”
“Oh, I slipped on the stairs.” He mumbled. The left side of his face was badly bruised, his left eye already nearly swollen shut. He had red marks around his neck. He glanced nervously towards the door on his left.
“Should I call a doctor?” “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“No, no, please, I’ll be fine—but I want you to play your piano anytime you want as loud as you want—okay?”
“But that’s not what…” Her voice trailing off.
“Please!” He screeched, his voice rising in panic.
“Alright.”
“Thank you, goodnight.” He wobbled toward the stairs.
She slowly closed the door, trying to understand what had just happened.

She didn’t hear his door close.
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Splat. Hey, ho, let’s go. Splat. Shoot ‘em in the back now. Splat. Again, the annoying tap on the shoulder. He removed his headphones and wheeled about. His supervisor was holding a pink sheet of paper in his hand.

“I told you I would write you up, and I meant it. Read this and sign it.”

“I’m not reading anything.” He turned his back to resume work. Another tap.

“Read this or you’re fired you dumbass.”

He turned slowly, a smile equally slowly spreading across his face. He took the paper from the supervisor’s hand. He held it up between himself and his boss and carefully read it. Then he lightly placed it against his super’s chest, who looked at him with faint surprise. Then he drove his knife through the paper as hard as he could.

Now his supervisor really looked surprised.
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She had spent the morning picking up her apartment, opening all the windows to let the heat out. She answered the knock on her door. She opened the door and he pushed her gently, but firmly, back into her apartment. He was short of breath and had blood on his clothes and hands. She knew he worked in a slaughterhouse and didn’t think much of it, although he was home early. His breathlessness and agitation were contagious, and she hurriedly inquired as to what was going on.

“Everything is alright.” He explained. “But I really need for you to play for me.”

“Play? The piano?”

“Please.”

She hadn’t even realized that he listened to her, and was touched now that the realization had dawned on her.

“Okay.”

As her hands glided effortlessly, he told her to keep looking at the music.

She could hear a bit of commotion behind her after which she felt the cold steel of a knife blade against her throat. She surprised herself with her lack of concern. A cooling breeze wafted in through the open window that was directly behind them both. Somehow they both knew it was the last time she would ever play for him.

“Here’s your final question.” He whispered. “At the end of every episode of The Flintstones, the family drives past the marquee of the movie they are going to see—what is the name of that film?”

She immediately said the title without the slightest change in what she was playing.

She could tell he was no longer behind her. The only sounds were those of the ringing final notes and of shouting in the street below.
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