Prologue
“Hi, how are you folks, today?"
The words just stumbled off my tongue without much thought at all. It hadn’t been an entirely humiliating beginning to my day so I didn’t think much of it.
"Fine, thanks,” replied a middle-aged man wearing a pressed shirt and pleated trousers.
"I must say, that's a mighty fine tie you have on there." Okay, so it wasn’t mighty fine, but, as a salesman, you have to find something to start the conversation.
"Yeah? What's so mighty fine about it?" he snipped back with a tinge of displeasure.
"Well, it's just so colorful and bright, I guess it's kind of festive,” I quickly responded with my typical self-deprecating tone, but I could see the conversation turning ugly.
"So colorful, bright, and festive make a tie mighty fine. Is that it?" quipped the man rhetorically.
"Yes, I...I guess so."
"So you probably think the clowns at the circus are mighty fine, or maybe even my wife's face is mighty fine. Is that so?"
His face reddened and his eyes bulged with anger and disgust. Something bad was happening. Something very bad, but I didn’t have the sense just to run away and get out of there. I just kept talking.
"No, I definitely didn't make the comment with reference to your wife's face. Not at all."
"So you don't think my wife's got a mighty fine face. Maybe you'd like to say that to her face yourself."
I could feel the noose tightening.
"I'm very sorry. Maybe my comment was misinterpreted. I mean I think your wife has a very attractive face, certainly more attractive than the tie. I mean that's obvious."
"Are you looking at my wife? 'Cause if you're looking at my wife, I'll...I'll..."
He started grinding his teeth like a caged wolf and steam escaped from his cauliflower ears. I prepared myself for the impact of his broad fist on my all-too-narrow face.
"No. No, definitely not. If fact, I didn't even really get a good look at her, but I'll bet she is beautiful. After all, she's got a husband with a wonderfully attractive tie. She must be beautiful."
"So you like the tie? That's very nice of you. You have a nice day."
"Thanks. You, too."
"I'm taking my smoke break now, if anyone cares."
Chapter 1
As I slumped down the corridor toward the break room, I reflected on the pathetic state of my life. It wasn’t surprising in the least that a customer would respond to me in that fashion. In fact, I almost came to expect it. One day it would be my mother, anther day it would be the postman the waitress, the apartment manager…it was likely to be just about anyone who came into contact with me. I had come to refer to my malady as “The Plague.” Oh yes, it had reached catastrophic proportions. It was as if stupidity grasped on to them and kept them wrapped tightly in its clutches until they managed to escape my presence. I was paranoid, perhaps, but in light of previous events, I could hardly be blamed for suspecting and preparing for the worst.
To give you a better understanding of the manifest stupidity that preceded my excursion to the break room, I offer here, as an example, a conversation that took place between myself, and my boss, Mrs. Caffey, some weeks earlier.
Mrs. Caffey (I hated calling her that. It made her seem as though she was my first grade teacher.) had noticed that I was a little bit edgy at work and that my sales figures had dropped significantly over the past month. Subsequently, she called me into a meeting to discuss the problem. When I come to think of it, the whole thing felt like a parent-teacher conference. Mrs. Caffey began with a short analysis of the last month and indicated her concern and her willingness to help in any way possible to resolve my problems. I initially claimed that my problems were of a personal nature and that I would handle them privately. I then promised not to let the personal things interfere with my work nor my attitude at work. Mrs. Caffey listened quietly, but her motherly instincts got the better of her and she persisted.
“Listen, O’Reilly, she said, “I’m your boss. You can trust me. If there is something in your life that not right I can help, I think you ought to tell me.”
Her eyes twinkled gaily in expectation of some deep dark secret that I might confidentially trust to her care. I decided (ignorantly in retrospect) to come clean and tell her my concerns.
“Mrs. Caffey,” I could see her edge anxiously forward, “I guess I’ve just been a little lonely lately and working all these nights isn’t helping my social life any. I guess I feel like I am getting older and, well, nothing is happening.”
I said the words with as much honesty and straight forwardness as I thought prudent, but the instant they escaped my mouth, I knew they had innocently betrayed me.
Upon speaking the words, I could see the evil talons of stupor and idiocy reach up and grasp tightly to Mrs. Caffey’s mouth and force it into a clown-like grin, and then it spoke.
“So you’re not getting any. I might have suspected it. Well, O’Reilly, sexual frustration is something many people deal with on a regular basis. I have this therapist that is just wonderful. I can give you her name. She’ll cure you in a heartbeat.”
“I don’t think you understand, Mrs. Caffey,” I blurted as I tried to prevent her from getting too carried away. “I think I just need a few nights off so I can date a little but and, you know, get into the single scene, that’s all.”
“You know, Carl, impotence is a curable thing. You don’t have to be embarrassed or shy. Why, with the techniques they have nowadays, you’ve no reason to worry at all. You’ll be back in commission in no time.”
“Mrs. Caffey! Mrs. Caffey!” I tried to stop her from continuing but the evil stupid beast had overwhelmed her and she rambled on about therapists and psychoanalysis and recovery. It was painful to behold really. I tried one last desperate attempt to shock her into intelligence. I stood abruptly and calmly proceeded to tell her that impotence was my concern but that virginity was. I then told her a few evenings off each week might help me resolve that concern. Her reply was as I expected.
“Carl,” she said with all tenderness and love, “have you been in to see a medical doctor about this virginity thing.”
In a span of five minutes, I had been transformed from a lonely, decent moral guy into a carousing, active, impotent hustler in need of a psychotherapist. Before the end of the day, I had received condolences from my male co-workers and evil glares from the females who thought me deserving of my fictitious infirmity.
I only mention this story to give you a brief understanding of the confusion that clouded my mind as I walked sluggishly to the break room. I also mention this particular story, because it adequately represents the myriad of other instances that I could have chosen. For instance, my apartment manager thought I dealt drugs because I asked him for a parking space. My mother thought I abused animals, and my next-door neighbor was convinced I was a multimillionaire on the run from the IRS. The list was enormous. “The Plague” was alive and well.
I reached the break room and immediately fell into the cushions of the rickety couch that gracefully adorned the wall opposite the refrigerator. I closed my eyes briefly in the hopes that my day hadn’t actually begun, and that I might just have dreamed it all. I remained in blissful peace for a few minutes before Jeremy tripped into the room struggling to light a cigarette.
“He, Captain, what’s up?” he murmured as his mouth tried desperately to keep the cigarette still enough to light. Jeremy had been stricken by “The Plague,” but it was harder to distinguish it with him. Chronic stupidity wasn’t a big leap for hi, but he too, felt its effects. He believed me to be a Vietnam was vet. It never occurred to him that I was exactly 4 years old when the war ended, and I couldn’t possibly have been there. My military career, however, was a direct result of my innocent comment that I liked the Doors. He took it from there.
I replied that nothing was up, and that I hoped he would keep the captain stuff between us only, as I didn’t want others to know. He nodded eagerly and blew a cloud of smoke high into the air.
“So, Captain, you doing anything tonight? Me and Charles are thinking about going to that club on 15th and Simon. Maybe you could go with us.”
It was Friday and Mrs. Caffey was gracious enough to give me the night off-I told her I had a session. I really didn’t like hanging out with Jeremy, but since nothing was planned, and I didn’t want to rot away at home, I gave him as encouraging a reply as I could.
“Maybe.” I said as I forced my lips into a faint smile of enthusiasm.
“All right, we’ll see ya there, Cap.” He blew another cloud into the air and stumbled back on to the sales floor.
Before Jeremy’s smoke had time to settle on the breakroom décor, Janice Thorogood whispered through the door growling feverishly.
“Carl, that woman is killing me today. I swear I’m gonna have a nervous breakdown. I swear it.”
My repose was thus disturbed, so I asked the inevitable question. “What did she do to you, today?”
“Are you taking her side, Carl? I knew you would. You Communists are all alike.”
She continued on and on. I closed my eyes and prayed once again that it was all a dream.
Chapter 2
I returned to my humble abode around 6pm. The day had been dreadful, but I expected as much. The plague struck violently all day. The worst of it involved a security guard and a seeing-eye dog. My goodness, the plague even affected animals. I checked my messages and we relieved to hear a decent soliloquy delivered by my mother. Apparently the plague was unable to threaten people through the answering machine.
My father had recently injured his back while listing a few boxes in his office, and Mom called to inform me of the results of his doctor’s appointment. He was fine. The doctor apparently prescribed some muscle relaxers and some well-deserved rest. I sighed faintly and again plopped into the comfort of another couch. As I stared at the spackled ceiling, I again pondered my lamentable state. I hadn’t been out for more than three weeks and I really didn’t have a whole lost of prospects. My ex-girlfriend, Katie, would call every week or so to make sure I was still miserable. I decided not to mention the plague to her, it would only delight and amuser her. She and I broke up several months prior to the plague so she had no idea of its devilish effects. Unfortunately, I couldn’t blame the breakup on the plague. The fault for that one lied with her and her loser current boyfriend. I could have understood if she had dumped me for a clean-cut, well-educated, handsome gentleman, after all, who could have blamed her, but no, she had to dump me for a pot smoking, beer drinking, high school drop out with a lisp and a name like Phil. He did have a varied assortment of concert shirts, and he was Mr. Popular at the local bowling alley. Come to think of it, he also had new rims on his truck. He had a lot more to offer. The whole thing disgusted me.
Since the time of our breakup, she and inbred boy had continued to date and had even toyed with the idea of marriage. I, on the other hand, struggled to cope with the breakup. I would sit at home and play with the computer, or I would go to a dance and watch the rest of the world enjoy themselves. Then, when I contracted the mysterious plague, the chances of a relationship became virtually impossible. Oh, I had tried several times, but each attempt resulted in sheer agony. Danielle, my latest victim, lasted about an hour before she was overwhelmed. The conversation began innocently enough, and before I knew it she was on top of the table, singing Barbara Steisand hits and kicking her legs like a Rockette. It was disastorous and yet altogether predictable. I was beginning to understand it. The plague was now a big enough part of my life that I began to see certain patterns develop and certain rules emerge.
I mentioned that I was happy to discover that it didn’t afflict people through the answering machine. It did, however, have a distinct effect during live conversation on the phone. Generally the plague was limited by a certain geographical distance (about 10-15ft), but for some reason phone lines extended that distance. Despite the effect the plague exerted on phone conversations, it had no such effect on live TV broadcasts or radio transmissions. I was slightly disappointed to find that out, I could have had a lot of fun if that had been the case. The plague did affect animals, dogs more so than cats or hamsters, but less so than birds. I often found myself in a warped version of Hitchcock’s famous movie. I also found that the plague afflicted different people in different ways. Stupidity is difficult to rank by degrees, because every person is at a different level to begin with, but the plague had a unique way of bringing everyone down to that bottom level.
Every day I noticed something new and different about the effects of the plague, but the stupidity generally fell into two basic categories. The first category was that of the logic leaps. If I said I liked the Los Angeles Lakers, then I must be from Las Angeles, and if I’m not from Los Angeles then I must be an actor, and if I’m not an actor then I must be making millions of dollars. These logical leaps inevitably lead to mistaken identities. I came to feel a little bit like Walter Mitty in reverse. Everyone but me believed I was someone else. I must admit that I kind of enjoyed playing with the while idea, but the negatives far outweighed the positives.
The second category was that of sheer weirdness. This category was far scarier, because it wasn’t predicatble at all. People would sing songs, quote Shakespeare, cluck like a chicken, or imitate inanimate objects. It could be just about any type of behavior, but it was never expected and rarely duplicated by other stricken persons. It was, however, repeated by the same person every time I came into contact with them. For example Jeremy never demonstrated any other weird behavior. The effects of the plague were limited to the Vietnam scenario. Such was the case with everybody, they stuck to their specific idiocy doggedly.
Besides the two categories listed above, several other categories existed. I came to expect the unexpected. Sometimes the plague would randomly skip someone, or so it seemed to me. I determined that the idiocy they experienced was of a silent variety. Most of the time, however, it would strike repeatedly for several days in a row, and my life would be in tatters.
I lunged and picked up the remote just before the thought of a tattered life threatened to thrust me into deep depression, and flipped on the mindless dribble that the TV had to offer. I glanced at the clock and realized that my daydream had occupied the better part of three hours. Plague or no plague, I had to force my self to go out.
Chapter 3
“The Boombox” was an aptly named dance club occupying the corner of 15th and Simon. Aptly named because it was loud and it was little more than a big box. The walls were gray and dusty, the bar area screamed 1970’s with it’s wood paneling and shag carpet, and the dance floor could have been a stunt double for the old Boston Garden with it’s parquet pattern and it’s numerous dead spots. It looked like an airplane hangar dressed as the Partridge family bus. Despite the obvious lack of charm and class, “The Boombox” held the distinguished honor of being the place to go in town, thanks mostly to the fabulous house band and the dozens of eccentric regulars who called it home.
I arrived just after 10pm and situated myself at a small table to the left of the stage. I scanned the room for Jeremy and Charles, and was pleased to find them on the opposite side of the stage talking to a couple of girls. I was more pleased with the fact that they were on the other side of the stage than I was of actually finding them. Jeremy was an idiot, but despite his idiocy, women seemed to find him irresistibly charming and smooth. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he dressed well, and drove an expensive little sports car. Charles, on the other hand was shockingly handsome. He looked a lot like Tom Cruise, only he was much taller and his features were much darker. Everyone, including Jeremy, thought he was Hispanic, but with a name like Charles Callahan he could only have been Irish. Charles liked to pretend he was Hispanic and he would claim to be Carlos, an Argentinean actor on holiday in the U.S. The girls rarely cared who he was, they just wanted to be seen with him. He and Jeremy were quite the scamming party hounds.
As I waved to them, Jeremy waved back and immediately shared my traumatic warring past with the awestruck girls. Within seconds, the quartet was winding its way towards me. I thought about trying to escape, but after all, I had come because of them. At least I should greet them and hang a little while.
As the group neared my table, I recognized one of the girls. It was Linda Morales, a girl who lived with her mother in the apartment complex across the street from me. I hadn’t seen her in quite some time. Her mother said she had gone away to study, so I was anxious to see how she was doing. As she approached, I realized the plague was already busy at work. Jeremy must have carried it with him, infecting people as he went along.
“Carl, Jeremy tells me you were in the war,” she commented with confusion.
“Well, Jeremy is always telling stories. I wouldn’t believe a whole lot of what he says,” I halfheartedly offered.
Without heeding my caution, she continued, “You must have been very young, perhaps only 4 or 5.”
My eyes suddenly lit up. I saw that the conversation had a realistic chance of being logical. After all, the improbability of a four-year-old being an officer in the Vietnam War was too great to ignore. However, before I could interject, the lanky Latin beauty concluded her thought. “Wow, that mission must have been super top secret.”
Jeremy and Charles both nodded in astonishment. The other girl just stood still looking cross-eyed at the fan above the table. Obviously the plague afflicted her in quite a different manner. To salvage the evening, I decided to give the savages what they wanted.
“Oh, very top secret,” I began. “The Army referred to it as Operation Baby Boom, but we all knew it only as Mama.”
The listeners stood mesmerized, hanging on my every word. It was really quite liberating and empowering. I weaved my tale through the jungles of Southeast Asia, and through the streets of America’s Capital. Oh, it was fun. As I prepared my final embellishments, a surge of nervousness swept over me. I became suddenly self-conscious and awkward. I noticed that in addition to the four bleary-eyed dolts that were watching my every move a number of other sets of eyes had suddenly directed their gaze in my direction. Two well-dressed men at the bar stared at me intensely as I finished off my story, and a gaggle of silk shirted goons on the opposite side of the dance floor took a sudden interest in me as well.
It was like a giant three ring circus and I was P.T. Barnum.
Again the attention was flattering but altogether too uncomfortable. In fact, the stares were really quite sinister. “The plague couldn’t possibly have affected that many people,” I thought. “They are all too far away.”
As I stood stunned by the instant attention and confused by its inexplicable cause, a long slender hand reached suddenly across my chest from behind and gripped tightly to my arm twisting me around. A firm, desperate kiss greeted me as I turned, and found myself looking into the deepest, most enchanting green eyes I had ever seen; eyes that wept as they held me captive by their beauty.
“They’re here,” she cried. “They are going to kill me. You’ve got to help me John, you’ve got to.”
“Who’s going to kill you? Where?” I asked as I started to go into shock. “Who’s John?”
The last question was a fair one I thought, but I soon discovered that the answer would have to wait. The enchanting eyes froze in terror as the silk-shirts started to cross the dance floor towards our table. Once again the enchantress’ eyes leaped to meet mine and before I knew it I was hopelessly drowning in them.
“Please, John, please help me!”
I glanced again to the dance floor. The silk shirts seemed to be approaching in slow motion. One of them reached the tables and started throwing chairs out of his path. I realized that not only the enchanting eyes were in trouble, but my squirrelly pale brown ones were too. Like it or not, I was John and people wanted to kill the girl in my arms.
I again looked at her terror-stricken face. She needed me. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth.
“Let’s go!” I screamed, and before I knew it, we were running hand in hand through the maze of tables that led to the service entrance at the back of the club. As we reached the door, I again checked the progress of our pursuers. They were just passing our table. As they did, I saw Charles strike one of the guys with a swinging chair to the midsection, and I heard Jeremy yell with sheer delight, “Whoa, this is way too cool.”
They were idiots, but there were also the only friends I had.
In the alley, my companion stopped and looked anxiously both ways. “Where are we going to go?” She cried. I could tell her day had been no better than mine. I had no idea where we were going to go, but I knew we had to get there as soon as possible.
I again grabbed her hand and began running feverishly through the alley towards 15th Street. We emerged on the street and, as we did, the sound of breaking glass greeted us. Our beloved pursuers were lovingly launching bullet-like projectiles towards us in hopes of ending our precious little lives. I threw the girl behind a parked car and went running into traffic. It was time to put the plague to some positive use. A little red sedan skidded to a stop as I leaped out of its way. The owner emerged from the car screaming and yelling and waving his fists, but when he got close enough his demeanor changed almost instantaneously.
“I’m very sorry Mr. President, I had no idea it was you. Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, sir, but I need to use your car. Very important government business.”
The man gave me his keys on the spot. I got in and waved my hiding companion over immediately. She jumped in just as another bullet pierced the rear window. I floored the gas pedal, and as I sped away, the silk-shirts waved their guns in the air and cursed at the top of their lungs. Amidst the curses and gun waving, a lone stranded motorist stood erect, saluting his commander-in-chief.
Chapter 4
“So let me get this straight. My name is John and I’m your boyfriend, and those guys with they guns are all jealous ex-lovers trying to kill us both. That just about covers it, right?”
“What in the world are you talking about, honey?”
The plague had obviously afflicted her gravely. I began to realize exactly what had occurred. She had, in the process of trying to escape her pursuers, seated herself close enough to me in the club to become infected or affected or whatever it is the plague does to people. She had mistakenly identified me as her boyfriend, John, and together with the silk-shirts persuaded me to help her out of the club. That much I understood. The part I was unclear about involved the silk-shirts and her. Who was she? Who were they? Why did they want to kill her? How could I, Carl O’Reilly, possibly help her, and secondly, why should I? It was these questions I pondered, as I stood motionless looking out the window of the cabin at the lake.
I had tried to deduce the answers when we arrived at the cabin, a place I chose simply because it was empty and secluded, but my questions were repeatedly met with passionate kisses of appreciation.
“John,” she said, “you were incredible. I love you so much. I could kiss you all night.”
Well, I decided to let her give it her best shot. After all, she was in a vulnerable condition, and I never wanted to be accused of turning away a damsel in distress. To my chagrin, however, the kissing lasted only about half of the night.
I turned slowly and again looked into the enchanting eyes that had captured me earlier. They were now joined by a narrow, fragile nose and a thin set of lips twisted gracefully into a captivating smile. Her tanned skin radiated a midwestern charm and her long straight dark red hair warmed her soul as well as mine. I must have looked a little like a schoolboy staring at the puppy in the window, for my companion asked suspiciously, “Honey, are you all right?”
I nodded affirmatively and decided to proceed as slowly and deliberately as possible.
“Dear,” I began, trying to sound boyfriend-like, “I’m going to ask you some really basic questions; questions that may seem ridiculous and trivial, but I need you to answer them truthfully and completely. Can you do that for me?”
She nodded and I continued.
“First of all, what is your full name and where are you from?”
“My name is Minnie, Minnie Mouse, and I come from a small, small world.” She giggled politely and laid her head tiredly on the table. I didn’t grin and my seriousness apparently accomplished the task I had originally desired.
“Okay, okay,” she began again. “It was just a joke. My name is Sheryl Connelly and I’m from Ames, Iowa. I don’t know what else you want to know.”
“Will you tell me a little about the guys in the silk shirts? Who were they and why do they want to kill you?”
At this point her eyes narrowed and she lifted her head from the table and looked nervously out the same window I was. She didn’t speak for several minutes and when she did, tears accompanied her trembling voice.
“I…I…don’t know,” she cried as her hands reached up to conceal her tears. “I was so scared back there. I just knew it was me they were after. I just knew it. John, why do they want to kill me? I didn’t do anything. I swear. I didn’t. I swear…”
“I know you didn’t.” I lifted her gently from her chair and once again held her in my arms. “So much for that line of questioning,” I thought as her tears soaked my oxford. She had no clue who they were, but how did she know they were after her? For all she knew they could have been after me.
“Sheryl,” I persisted, “how did you know they wanted to kill you. I mean you were right, but how did you know?”
“Madame Lucinda, my fortune teller, told me to beware of men with silver tongues and gold watches. Those men had both.” The matter-of-fact nature of the response shocked me a little.
“You mean to tell me a psychic warned you about those men?”
“Oh, yes. I’m not superstitious or anything, but Madame Lucinda is pretty good about stuff like that. She told me men lied that are to be feared and avoided, especially now in my life.”
I noticed that Sheryl became more animated and less emotional as she talked about Madame Lucinda. It was kind of funny, but I felt a little like Sherlock Holmes as I continued. “Did Madame Lucinda tell you anything else about those men?”
Sheryl shrugged her shoulders and squinted as if she were really concentrating. “Not really,” she said. “The last time I saw her we talked mostly about Claude. John, I told you this already.”
“Yeah, I know,” I interjected quickly. “I just want to make sure it is all fresh in my mind.”
She stood up and kissed me tenderly on the forehead. I interpreted that action as an affirmative response so I proceeded. “You mentioned something about a man named Claude. I know this sounds like I am rehashing obvious things, but who is Claude?”
Sheryl again wrinkled her nose and looked at me suspiciously. “Are you sure you didn’t fall down and bump your head? Claude is my, or rather, was my husband. We’ve been separated now for about six months, and I’m in the process of getting a divorce from him.”
“Sheryl, pretend I’ve never heard of Claude before tonight and tell me all about him; where he’s from, what he does, where you met him. You know, that kind of stuff.”
“Well, okay, but this is awfully weird.”
I nodded in agreement. Yes, it was.
Chapter 5
Sheryl began her story, and I listened with great interest as she told me all that she knew. Claude and she met at a party thrown by her boss about one year ago. Sheryl worked as a secretary for a realtor, and the realtor threw the party to celebrate the opening of a housing development. Claude apparently attended the party as a friend of one of the investors. Sheryl described their meeting as a love at first sight kind of thing. He was French, and his accent delighted her and every other girl at the party, but Claude soon made his way to her table. Before the end of the night, the pair was hopelessly in love.
They courted for a very brief time and were married within three months. Sheryl shook her head in disgust as she recounted the events. Her mother warned her against marrying him until she knew more about him, but she said she was swept away by the emotion and the moment.
After their marriage, things started to fall apart. Claude suddenly became very jealous and secretive. Prior to the marriage, Claude indicated that he was in the French Foreign Legion, but that he was retired because of an injury he had received, and that he was in the process of negotiating his stipend with the French government. After the marriage, however, he became defensive and hostile whenever the issue of the stipend came up. In the meantime, he wasn’t bringing home any money, and, according to Sheryl, he was living off her income.
The situation continued like this only a short time before Sheryl blew up and demanded some answers. Rather than answer her though, he left on a trip to France, supposedly to deal with the stipend. While in France, Claude’s jealousy became even more oppressive. He would call her at work every other hour and demand to know who was in the office with her and when they would be leaving. I asked Sheryl why she didn’t just leave him there and then. She answered that, at the time, she still loved him and she thought he still loved her.
While Claude was still in France, several other things occurred that adversely affected their relationship. According to Sheryl, she began receiving medical bills from the hospital for operations performed prior to their courtship and marriage. Because her husband was in France and wasn’t contributing to the couple’s bank account, these bills became a huge burden. A burden she felt she had to carry out of conjugal duty, if not out of love.
The other problem was that of trust. Claude, as I said before, called Sheryl to the point of pestering her, but apparently he refused to give her his number so that she could call him. This lack of respect infuriated Sheryl, but she still remained faithful.
I don’t know why I found this story so compelling. Somehow I felt it was central to the occurrences of the evening. Sheryl did not share my feelings however.
“John,” she insisted, “Claude was a jerk, but he was definitely not violent in any way, shape, or form, and I don’t think he had any friends here in Las Vegas outside of my family. I don’t know how he would even know any of those guys tonight.”
I wanted to blurt out, “The French Foreign Legion. Hello?” but I refrained.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. So how did you finally break up with Claude?”
“Well, it was pretty much that I got sick of his lying. He finally came back from France, but when I pressed him about the hospital bills and the stipend, he said I wasn’t being very loyal. You know, I think he has a girl in France. I’m almost sure of it. He went back there about six months ago and I basically told him not to ever come back, and that’s it.”
She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn’t know what to say. The story still sounded pretty fishy to me, but then again, she knew Claude, and I didn’t.
I noticed that it was about 4:30 in the morning so we called it a night, or rather a morning, and decided to go to bed. This, of course, brought about another series of complicated circumstances. Despite my excitement over being with a beautiful woman, I didn’t think it appropriate to sleep with her, especially under the false pretenses that had been established. Subsequently, I suspiciously developed a monstrous headache that required me to spend a long time in the bathroom and then the kitchen. Thankfully, Sheryl quickly fell into a deep slumber, and I retired to the front couch. As I stared at the ceiling once again, I found only the energy to sigh.
Chapter 6
Saturday arrive unexpectedly early. At about 7:30, one of the neighbor’s dogs began barking loudly in the street. I was briefly awakened by the clatter, but I don’t do mornings very well, and I quickly drifted into unconsciousness. The interruption did serve to jar my mind into a functioning unit, however, and soon enough I realized that the dog’s bark might not be a good omen. I might have been followed. I might have been discovered. The thugs had somehow found me. A thousand harrowing thoughts entered my mind at the same instance. Before I knew it, I was rushing through the cabin half-asleep, half-enraged towards the front door. I flung it open with Herculean force, determined to smite the enemies in defense of my newfound love.
A twelve-year-old girl loaded down with newspapers gazed in terror as the door swung open revealing an enraged psycho-sleepwalker in his underwear. I was mortified and humiliated. She bolted away with obvious horror.
As she disappeared around the corner, I couldn’t help but collapse in laughter and relief. The barking dog warned not of approaching danger, but of an innocent news carrier. As I lay on the front porch in my underwear, my mind began to become more aware and more alert to the danger that my experience last night had engendered. It was time to do some thinking and some planning. I picked myself up and ambled back inside. I peeked into the bedroom to find Sheryl curled up in the blankets oblivious to my recent blunder. Her long, red hair draped across the pillows seductively. She really was beautiful.
I shut the door quietly and tiptoed to the couch once again. I noticed a pad and paper next to the phone and decided to jot down some notes to help organize my thoughts. I wrote slowly thinking out every statement.
1. I am a salesman in a department store.
2. When people get near me they go stupid.
3. I don’t work until Saturday night.
4. What in the world am I doing?
I paused for several minutes as I contemplated number four. I was an innocent bystander who got caught in something much bigger than could ever have been expected. I didn’t know anybody even remotely connected to the events of the evening. For heaven’s sake, they definitely didn’t know me. The thoughts kept coming faster and faster. Once again, I tried to focus on the sheet of paper before me. I began again.
OPTIONS
1. Run away. Ditch the chick.
2. Tell her the truth about everything including the “Plague”
3. Somehow find the real John and hope he can help.
4. Go to the police. (Get protection)
5. Find Claude??
6. Pray
I’m sure there were a hundred more options, but I couldn’t think of any more that early in the morning. I again paused to evaluate the list I’d written. The “Ditch the Chick” idea was definitely the safest and easiest way for me to avoid serious harm—something I definitely wanted to avoid. The problem with that idea was that I was weak. I kind of found myself attached to the chick. I couldn’t just leave her. Chivalry still had a place in the world and that place was the cabin. No, I definitely couldn’t ditch the chick.
The “Reveal the Plague” idea had merit to it also, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the simple revelation of the plague would solve nothing. First of all, if she believed me and accepted my story, she would still be in a heap of trouble, only she would realize she was in a stranger’s cabin. Secondly, what were the chances she would even believe me? She’d probably think I was nuts, then she’d really be frightened. The “Reveal the Plague” idea was promptly placed on the back burner. Maybe later.
The “Find John” idea jumped to the forefront. If we found John, he could resolve the whole plague issue as soon as she saw him; at least I hoped that would be the case. He might also be able to give us some idea of who her pursuers were. The major drawback to the “Find John” idea was the fact that I would inevitably lose the girl. I cringed at the thought, but I knew that to keep her for myself because of a lie, albeit an inadvertent lie, reeked of selfishness. Yes, the “Find John” option was the best. I looked at the other choices with interest and settled firmly on the decision to find John as soon as Sheryl woke up.
Chapter 7
It was only 8:30 when I glanced at the clock on the VCR. Sheryl wouldn’t wake up for another several hours, so I grabbed the remote and began surfing my way towards Sportscenter. After my evening, a good helping of baseball scores, hockey trades, and labor disputes would surely calm my frazzled nerves. Not being on to simply punch in the 1 and then the 6, I poked individually through the various other channels, hesitating briefly on each one to determine the quality of programming at that hour. As I clicked through, I stopped long enough to see that the local news was just beginning.
The usually perky anchorwoman opened the broadcast with a grim expression. “In our Top Story this morning,” she began, “local artist, John Brenly was found dead earlier this morning outside his apartment. Police officers found the young artist shot to death at approximately 2:00 A.M. Officers at the scene suspect that the shooting may have been gang-related, but have refused to speculate on the exact motive. So far there are no suspects.”
I sat in stunned silence as the anchorwoman continued. “In other news, the police are still looking for the men suspected of firing several bullets last night behind ‘The Boombox Club’ near the intersection of 15th and Simon. Witnesses described the men as having dark, tanned complexions and being ‘tidy and clean cut’. The police also reportedly questioned a man who believed that someone resembling the President of the United States may have been involved. Nobody was injured.”
I couldn’t move. I hardly even breathed. I wanted to cry but I didn’t have the energy. I knew that the John from the TV was the same John from my list. I reached over and crossed out the “Find John”. Obviously John had been found. I clicked off the TV. Sportscenter would have to wait for another day. I again consulted my list. I couldn’t bring myself to even think about John and what it would mean to Sheryl. She would be devastated.
At that particular moment I came to realize the danger I found myself in. Someone was killed. Someone very close to the woman in my bed. How could I tell her? Why did they kill him? Again the questions filled my head, but not a single answer accompanied them.
I piddled around lifelessly for another hour occasionally looking the list over for inspiration. Eventually, my impatience got the best of me and I nearly rushed in to wake Sheryl and tell her everything. To keep myself occupied, I prepared a dynamic breakfast of who-knows-how-old granola and powdered milk. I also tried to pretend I had some semblance of a life before last night. To convince myself of that fact, I called my house to check my voice messages. Perhaps, I thought, someone would leave a message that would divert my attention if only for a few minutes.
The first message blandly informed me that MCI wished to speak to me concerning my service. The second message was my Mom calling to ask me if she could borrow my windbreaker. Go figure. The third message was from Jeremy. He spoke so fast I could hardly understand his words.
“Carl, dude, that was crazy. I hope you’re all right. Hey, bud, not to get in your business or nothing, but the cops or the Feds or somebody is after you. They think you kidnapped that girl or something. They threatened to throw us in jail if we didn’t tell them stuff. Don’t worry, we didn’t tell ‘em nothing about Vietnam. Oh, yeah, Linda told ‘em your name, but they didn’t seem to believe her. Anyway, dude, take it easy. Good luck.”
As I listened I reached across and picked up the list and reluctantly crossed out the “Go to the Police” idea. That left only two. The “Find Claude” idea could wait. I decided the “Prayer” idea was the way to go and I could begin that immediately.
Sheryl woke up at about 11:30 and groggily entered the kitchen in what appeared to be one of my father’s flannel hunting shirts. She smiled in my general direction and opened the refrigerator to scavenge something to drink. My parents came to the cabin frequently, so supplies were plentiful, and orange juice proved to be the liquid of choice for my aspiring female gunsmith. She gracefully lifted the glass to her lips and winked. I dreaded the inevitable time that I would tell her about John. I grabbed the list and wadded it up before she came and sat next to me. My prayer experience had been relatively successful. I felt like a plan would soon develop that might eventually resolve the harrowing dilemma we faced.
Sheryl and I spent several minutes talking about the weather and how the night went. We both tried to avoid talking about the shooting, but, before long, a look of pained expectation came to Sheryl’s face. I would have to talk about it. I took a deep breath and began.
“I’ve been thinking all morning and I’ve got a few ideas. First of all, what do I do, you know, as a job?”
Again Sheryl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and she replied. “You’re a painter, I believe.”
I knew it. I had held on to a slim hope that the John of this morning wasn’t me, but I was. Before Sheryl got any more suspicious, I continued. “Exactly. I paint. I’m an artist and I have a great creative mind. With that in mind, I’ve come up with a plan that’s going to help us figure out what’s going on, and most importantly help us find out who wants to kill you.”
I stopped and nervously tapped my knee. I had no idea what to do. Sheryl leaned closer, anxiously expecting my glorious plan. I didn’t have one yet, so I just improvised.
“The key to the plan, however, is its secrecy. I can’t even tell you what it is. The plan’s success depends solely on the fact that it’s so secret. Don’t ask me to tell you, it will only complicate matters.”
Okay, so my improvisation was lame. Sheryl’s expression confirmed that fact, but she didn’t press me on the matter. Instead, she just sighed and questioned my politely. “John,” she said, “while you are so secretly executing your plan, what would you like me to do?”
“I need you to find out, using your best sources, where Claude is right now. I want you to call around to all his good friends or to his business partners, anyone you might know and find out any information you can. I know you don’t think Claude is involved, but maybe he can help us. Can you do that?”
Sheryl nodded and jumped up from the couch and began cleaning my breakfast dishes. I thought that, all things considered, things were going along smoothly. I decided to press my luck.
“Sheryl, I also think that we may not be in the safest situation. I think we need to get out of here and we definitely need to get rid of that car we stole, um, borrowed.”
She again nodded, and it was the nod of final submission. Basically, she was frightened and didn’t want to talk anymore. The rest of the morning and into the early afternoon was spent cleaning the cabin and preparing to leave. Sheryl spoke rarely, opting to keep her feelings and comments to herself, but one comment stuck out like a sore thumb. As I leafed through the Yellow Pages searching for a cheap hotel, I overheard her mumbling something under her breath.
“I don’t know what’s going on. He hates granola.”
I knew that the Plague still played a huge part in our brief relationship, but her innocent observation gave me hope that perhaps the bonds of stupor and idiocy could ultimately be broken. With that hope, I smiled from ear to ear and buried my head once again in the phone book.
