Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Still it got him moving. He had been in the bathroom far, far, too long and needed out. Now.
He gripped the door handle and reached for the light switch. First, the light – off, then the door - open. He stepped into the hallway and groped his way, tracing his hands along the wall like a blind man ambulating down a nursing home corridor. The few steps that he needed to cover seemed especially long, but finally his outstretched fingers nudged the frame. He took another step and was rewarded with partial vision.
In Demon’s room, the streetlight shined unabated through his anemic window curtains. Here he could, as he had always, prepare for bed without the need of any indoor artificial light.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he fumbled hopelessly with his shirt buttons. After undoing only the top two, he conceded by pulling the shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. A jingle of coins hit the hardwood making him jump.
Money? Where did that…. He picked up the shirt and looked it over. The breast pocket limped slightly and he felt inside. Two quarters. The lighter stuff, dimes and pennies had spilled across the floor. Demon contorted his brain to think, finally landing upon juggling coins, candy and door handles at the 7-11. He considered the task of picking up the coins, then decided it could wait
'til
morning. The shirt went back on the floor.
He kicked off his shoes without unlacing them, then rose slightly, undid his pants and allowed them to drop on top.
Undressing for bed and redressing in the morning was still a new practice, trying to perform it on the tail end of being stoned, made it damn near impossible.
As he reclined in bed and groped for his single disheveled blanket, Demon lapsed into mental lethargy. In this one night alone there had been so much: The Bird taking the blame from the bone man; his own confusion over working too fast/working too slow; the incredible ride, cigarettes, music, the hills, bob. There was the daunting task of making a purchase at 7-11, and then the incredible payoff of discovering munchies. He had been mortified by his open fly, the inability to pee, and the embarrassment of being covered with foxtails, and the mixture of peanuts, chocolate and snot that soiled his face.
All of these things, indeed any
one
of these things would normally have occupied his mind for hours.
But he was stoned.
Demon lay his head on his withered pillow. And where there should have been a kaleidoscope of images from the nights adventures, good and bad, there was only darkness. Within moments, he was asleep.
It was the most pure form of sleep he had ever experienced. No dreams, no movement.
Vacant, void, empty.
Complete.
Perfect.
Until he heard the screams of his mother the next morning.
Part
4
Sabbatical
Chapter 1
1
The grandfatherly type sat in his parked car on
Pershing Drive
wishing for things to hurry up. He glanced at his watch, 7:55, then looked longingly at the store. Hoping; hoping that the hand would appear from behind the glass and switch the sign a few minutes prematurely from ‘closed’ to ‘open.’
It wasn’t that he needed to be anywhere soon, it was just that he wanted to be done and on his way as quickly and discretely as possible.
7:57, still no hand, still ‘closed.’
The car that he was driving was a nondescript rental, as it was each time he visited the twin cities. His trench coat, far too much, even by
Minnesota
standards; for late May. Throw in the sunglasses and Greek fisherman’s cap and you had all the makings of an east coast gangster.
But gangster he was not; the easy lines of his face could tell you that. ‘I am a man you can come to, I can listen to your worries and respond with compassion,’ they broadcast to all who gazed upon them.
7:59
And he was that man. The man that people turned to for consolation. The man who gave them hope when things looked
darkest. The man who christened their births, celebrated their marriages, mourned their dead.
8:00
The man who raped their children.
By necessity Gustavus Milliken took great pains to hide his dirty secret. Ergo the rental sedan for the 70 mile trip from Elmwood, ergo the get-up of coat, hat and shades, and ergo the early morning hour, when he could get in and out of the store with minimal risk of human interaction. Other than the clerk that is; and the slimy weasel behind the counter hardly qualified as human.
8:02
“Shit on a shingle!” Gus looked nervously along
Pershing Drive
; still barren of traffic. But even in this seedy commercial district people would soon be moving about as the day progressed.
A glint caught his eye and he turned back to the store.
“Open” he had missed the hand, but only by a moment. The sign swung lazily as the suspension cord settled on the hook.
Gus checked himself in the rearview. The cap and shades helped, but could not conceal him entirely. He wished for a spot of rain or a cold blustery wind to justify it, but turned up the collar of the trench coat just the same, notching the top button into its socket to seal the deal.
What was left, was forehead, cheeks and chin. All other identifying elements, save for his hands, concealed. And these he stuffed, after exiting the car, deep into the pockets of the trench.
He crossed Pershing slowly; just an elderly gentleman who had suffered his share of fantastically cruel winters, and took no
chances by overdressing. An old man out for his morning walk, perhaps he was on his way to the corner mart to pick up muffins and dried prunes for breakfast. Or maybe he was headed to the newsstand for the latest issue of The New Yorker and a couple of White Owl cigars.
Or maybe, for anyone so inclined to watch, he could just be another dirty old man making a beeline for the corporate headquarters and sole location, prominently displayed on the vertical sign, of
E
X
treme
E
X
otica
E
X
change
Gus gripped the door handle through the fabric of the trench. As he stepped in he was awash with feelings of reservation, both for the violation of his sacred vows and for the chance of discovery.
The clerk merely looked at him and then returned to priming the cash register.
Gus didn’t need a greeting (didn’t want one). And he didn’t need directions. He headed straight to the back room.
He browsed for a few moments, not at all interested in the merchandise, but as a method to determine if anyone else was in the store. He wove his way back to the front, glancing down each aisle to ensure privacy, and then approached the clerk.
“Boys room.” The statement was brief, the meaning immense. This time the clerk took much greater interest in his customer. He didn’t look familiar, but he did know the codeword. Child porn may not be their biggest item, but if fetched a great price and usually a handsome tip for the seller. The fact that it was highly illegal, jail-time illegal, made it a risky proposition.
“You been here before?” The clerk wanted just a little more reassurance before proceeding.
“Yes.”
“So you know where the boys room is?”
“Behind the counter. In the safe.”
The guy was legit. The clerk glanced leeringly at the entrance, then stooped behind the counter. The safe was still open from his cash register priming. He lifted a false panel from the bottom and retrieved two magazines: “Cock-a-diddle-do” and “Pubes.”
Gus knew better than to leisurely leaf through the offerings. This wasn’t the public library. The clerk was at much risk as he was.
“Both.”
The clerk quickly concealed both smut rags into a sleeve. He shot the old guy a price, $35. Gus had pre-planned. To avoid having to extract his wallet (and potentially reveal some form of identity) he had planted 4 twenty
-
dollar bills in his trench. He unfolded two of them on the counter, nodded knowingly at the clerk and left without his change.
Outside the store he was awhirl with anticipation and anxiety. He held his package guiltily; the urge to hide it under his coat was compelling, the knowledge that he would be driving to a municipal park (preferably near a playground) and glancing through the pages, scintillating. The street was still quiet, there were no pedestrians; but a block up, a metro bus was idling at a stop light. A half minute sooner, and the metro with its 20 gawking passengers would have been abreast of his exit from the triple X exchange. He acknowledged his good fortune, yet cringed at the thought of the near miss.
He re-crossed the street, this time with a little more meaningful pace. Driven by the need to create distance between himself and
the store, and beckoned by the pleasures that awaited, his black oxfords literally skimmed across the asphalt.
The car had been left unlocked; intentionally. Fumbling with keys and an unfamiliar lock would mean precious seconds lost. It might also have caused him to drop his package, allowing pages of naked grade school boys to flutter openly along
Pershing Drive
.
Unacceptable.
Gus yanked at the handle with his free hand, tossed his package on the passenger seat, and settled his frame behind the wheel.
Time to go.
He hesitated just briefly, shaking off the slimy feeling of the store and the immorality of the purchase. He would have preferred to have shed the trench and the stupid hat and glasses, but he knew better. Those would have to wait. Gus fired up the sedan, checked for traffic three times (Even a slight fender bender would have meant police, his name on an incident report and publication in the daily blotter) and cautiously pulled onto
Pershing Drive
.
With the seedy district left behind, his trepidation eased while his anticipation bulged. Still he kept the vehicles pace nearly sedentary, well under the speed limit. He gauged his approach to each stoplight by the pedestrian signals, if the white stickman was lit, he rolled through freely. If the amber “DON’T WALK” was flashing, he coasted; right foot poised on the brake. He would rather stop well in advance than roll under a yellow; potentially attracting the attention of some rookie cop trying to buffer his ticket quota and with a no tolerance policy for ‘in-betweeners.’ “Sir may I see some identification. And what’s that you have in the package?”