The gloves work like a charm. I practiced all day, until I could hit Simon Cowell nine out of ten times. I devised a simple flicking motion that guarantees a high success rate. I am very, very pleased with my progress.
According to the posh-sounding weather lady, it is supposed to rain for the next couple of days, so I will embark upon my journey on Tuesday. I am starting to get excited.
MONDAY SEPTEMBER 10
I watched
Terminator 2
on the telly today. I quite enjoy movies and television. I think it's because the endings always take me by surprise. (Except for the series
Columbo
. You know who the murderer is right away, and you know he's going to get caught by the strange little man. What is the point, I wonder? And which is his good eye?) At one point in the film the Terminator says, “
Hasta la vista
, baby!” Although it sounds ridiculous in an Austrian accent, nevertheless it became a popular catchphrase. I wonder why the supercomputer of the future made his killing machines with barely understandable European accents? No matter. What occurred to me, though, was that perhaps I should prepare a little catchphrase to shout out once I've thrown Ian's ashes into the eyes of my victims.
“Hasta la vista” might be appropriate as I run away from the scene, but I would really like to be able to deliver a pronouncement of sorts, something with
gravitas
that explains the reason for my actions. After hours of pondering my options, the best I could come up with was: “Ian Becker's ashes in your eyes, sucka!” (I added “sucka” to give it more street feel, but I confess the whole phrase seems a little too forced. It's not my style, and it certainly wasn't Ian's.)
I have printed out some famous catchphrases that I hope to adapt to my needs. I find I have really warmed to my task!
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
I feel as if I am about to embark on a momentous journey. Today, by honoring my dear friend's final wishes, I'm traveling to places I've never ventured to. I'm engaging in behavior that I'd never previously even considered. I may even be committing crimes. The thought emboldens me.
After wolfing down the largest breakfast I have had in years (two eggs over easy, bacon crisp, four link sausages, pancakes, berries, yogurt, two slices of whole-wheat toast, granola, two cinnamon buns, a chocolate croissant, orange juice, and a pot of coffee), I am heading out with the address of my first target in hand.
LATER, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Jeanine Carson. Of the five remaining, she lives closest to me and I know her well. She deserved the fate that Ian had chosen for her. She had married Ian shortly after we graduated from college. From the start it was an unfortunate union. I had tried to warn Ian away from her but succeeded only in causing a rift in our friendship. During their short union, Ian and I rarely saw each other. She disapproved of my disapproval.
Now, I am not often subject to bouts of intuition (“gut instincts,” as the colonials say), but from the day I first met Jeanine on the campus common, I took an instant dislike to her. Perhaps people who lack certain qualities, like imagination, are more sensitive to the gaps in others' personalities. Yes, I find it hard to dream, to imagine a wide spectrum of possibilities, but in my defense, I submit that I am
fundamentally
a good person. I have common sense, I tend not to judge people, I am a steadfast friend. Not to toot my own horn, but I also have a very low cholesterol count and have been told on more than one occasion that I am an exceptional kisser. Jeanine had lots of dreams and ideas but no common sense, no strong character to anchor her. And in Jeanine's world, she was the main bunny, it was all about her. She was sharp-tongued, selfish, self-involved, and vain. Worst of all, she pronounced “nuclear” incorrectly.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, of course, with auburn hair and deep blue eyes. But Ian would have been happy with someone who looked like a rhino. He was never shallow and certainly not obsessed with physical beauty. I suppose they must have had some things in common, but I can't imagine what. (Not surprising.) It was
her
failings, I was quite sure, that destroyed her marriage to Ian. I saw how hard he worked to make her happy. Marrying her was one of the few lapses of judgment that I could recall Ian ever having.
I know he realized it early on, too. At the wedding, as Jeanine walked down the aisle, he whispered to me, “What have I done? Quick, get me to the car!” Unfortunately, I had a horrendous head cold that impaired my hearing. I thought he said, “You know what'll be fun? Recite me some Bard!” As I plunged into the five or six Shakespearean sonnets that I knew by heart, Ian looked at me with growing astonishment. God bless him, he started to laugh right there at the altar. When he tried to muffle it, tears streamed from his eyes. Jeanine was not amused. She hissed out several variations of a popular Anglo-Saxon curse that intimated I should have relations with myself. I could have saved Ian a lot of pain if only I'd had a good decongestant.
Across from Jeanine's Kensington Street home I stood watching and waiting. She had done quite well in the divorce and had retained the beautiful terraced townhouse that Ian and she had shared for fourteen months. Quite posh. I stood across the street for six hours, thinking that perhaps I should have “cased the joint” as they say in the films noirs. Gotten a trench coat and made notes on her comings and goings, looking for patterns, that sort of thing. At the very least, worn more comfortable shoes. Just as I was about to give up hope, Jeanine stepped out her front door. Although I had never found her attractive (because of her poisonous personality), I could see that she was still a beautiful woman with a lovely trim figure. She hadn't seemed to have aged at all. Indeed, I have found that to be true with most shallow people. It's almost as if the lack of depth gives the wrinkles nothing to attach themselves to. I followed her.
There were few people on the residential street lined with Georgian terraces, but she was heading for the busiest part of the high street, which would make my job much more difficult. It had to be here, under the shade of the plane trees. I quickened my pace till I was just a few feet behind her. My heart was pounding as I put my hand in my plastic-lined jacket pocket and grabbed a handful of Ian's remains. I raised my hand to the level of Jeanine's reddish coiffure and shouted.
“Jeanine!”
She whipped around, her painted lips pouted in a perfect moue. Before she could recognize me, I flicked a heaping handful of ash smack dab into her deep blue eyes. She reacted as anyone would.
She screamed.
“Ian Becker has passed sentence!” I shouted. I should have left it there, but I panicked. “And we're going to need a bigger boat!”
Jeanine actually stopped clawing at her eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of my utterance. The ashes coated her delicate face, and for a moment, she looked like a mime. Feeling more than a little embarrassed at the scene before me, I ran away.
Back home in the safety of my kitchen, I made myself a strong cup of tea. My hands shook as I brought the steaming cup to my lips, but I was exhilarated. It had gone quite well, except, of course, for the
Jaws
reference. I had stayed up quite late last night and caught the last half on Men&Movies channel.
One down, four to go.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12
I did two today without a hitch. The first victim, like Jeanine, was someone with whom I had a personal history. Jeremy Parkinson was the bully who terrorized Ian. He ran the schoolyard with the ruthlessness of a South American dictator. He even had the beard. It has been said that bullies are cowards, and if you stand up to them, they will back down. This was not true of Parkinson. Ian and I stood up to him regularly, and he rewarded our valor with punches, kicks, and repeated dunkings in the girls' loo. Ian once remarked that he had never come across anyone who enjoyed the discomfort of others as much as this yobbo.
Tracking him down was easy, though admittedly not because of my superior detective skills. Our school was having a thirty-five-year reunion and, through an old acquaintance who was on the planning committee, I procured Parkinson's home and work addresses. I went to the work address to carry out Ian's sweet revenge.
Parkinson is the owner of a flower shop near Covent Garden. The only thing that would have surprised me more would have been if he was lead dancer for the London Ballet. He never seemed to have any interest in botany when we were younger, though to be fair, he did favor a willow switch to beat our bare bottoms. Maybe it's strange, but I think of florists as emotional, sensitive types. We never opened our hearts to each other, although I'm sure Parkinson would have loved to have done it literally.
I arrived at the shop just before business hours. I watched as Parkinson opened his door, bringing out green plants and little potted bulbs that he lovingly placed in front of his window. I have to admit that the placement of each flower and plant was quite aesthetically pleasing. Parkinson, not so much. He was about six-three and muscular. He looked like a shaven ape.
I was wondering if he was still the ill-tempered yob that I remembered when he viciously kicked a pigeon hopping near his flowers. I put on my latex glove, stuck my hand in my pocket, and made my way into the store. Parkinson, without looking up at me, said pleasantly, “With you in a moment, sir.”
“Take your time,” I said, disguising my voice for no good reason. Parkinson would not have recognized it or me. I was chubby last time we met and quite a different-looking person than I am now. Parkinson had his back to me and was fussing with some yellow tulips. I made my way to him, all the while noticing how much bigger he seemed in here with ivy creeping about his shoulders than he did outside. I raised my arm to eye level and cleared my throat. He turned to me, and before he could register what was happening, I flicked. In a voice more panicked and in a higher register than I would have liked, I shouted: “Becker says, âKiss my ash!'”
Again, shame coursed through me. It was a vulgar thing to say, and it didn't capture Ian's spirit at all. It was only after I ran away, with the sounds of Parkinson's wounded roar ringing in my ears, that I realized how horrible things would have gone if I'd missed his eyes. As I ran, I stumbled over a disoriented pigeon sprawled on the cobblestones.
In comparison to Parkinson, victim number three was child's play. If child's play involved throwing mortuary ashes. Danny DeLeon was a contractor who had worked on Ian's house. DeLeon had charged a king's ransom for his work, but used shoddy materials and had questionable judgment. He built a beautiful balcony on the second floor that wasn't accessible from inside the house. All the doorknobs were placed on the side of the door closest to the hinges. The door at the back of the house, which led into a lovely English garden, was two feet above the ground, with no stairs to connect it to the landingâthat didn't exist. He broke building codes willy-nilly, making Ian's home a dangerous place to live. DeLeon managed to get away with his misdeeds by bribing building inspectors, and he always had an irritating smirk on his face. Today that smirk would disappear. (Danny DeLeon had also worked on my flat. And had overcharged me for a small plumbing job. But that was nothing compared to what he'd put Ian through.)
I surprised him at a construction site while he was sitting in the portable loo. I have to say that this one gave me the most pleasure. I thoroughly enjoyed watching him, writhing and screaming like a little girl, whilst pulling up his knickers as I whispered, “May the Becker be with you!” into his ear.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13
Almost disaster today! It started off well enough. It was a beautiful bright sunny morning. I had driven quite early to get to the Oxford office of number four: Dr. Kyle Farnsworth. He was a psychologist that Ian had started seeing after his disastrous marriage to Jeanine had terminated. I had never seen my friend in such a fragile state. He had started to doubt his judgment and his talent, and wondered if his life was worth living. His latest Busy Beaver stories were filled with self-pity and loathing. I'm sure that more than one of his young readers ended up seeking counsel themselves.
Farnsworth was a quack, and his “treatments” set Ian back so much that it took almost three solid years of therapy with a gifted psychologist before he was back to his old self.
To make matters worse, Farnsworth published papers detailing the sessions. He used a pseudonym for Ian, but everyone knew, and Ian was mortified. Farnsworth betrayed Ian's confidence and exposed his secrets and those of his friends. I looked forward to this “hit.” I despise people who take advantage of others when they are at their most vulnerable. Also I'm not fond of the name Kyle.
In addition to his private practice, Farnsworth was a lecturer and course director at the Department of Experimental Psychology at Oxford. The university is quite beautiful and it almost felt wrong to carry out Ian's revenge here. Almost.
Precisely at noon, Farnsworth exited his office and made his way through the hallowed grounds of the university. I quickly gained on my quarry. Just before I reached him, he stopped and fiddled with something in his pocket.
I raised my ash-filled hand and cleared my throat. “Dr. Farnsworth?”
Farnsworth turned around and gazed at me from behind a pair of expensive wraparound Ray-Bans. Damnation! I could throw the ashes anyway, but hitting his Ray-Bans wouldn't fulfill my obligations to my friend. Perhaps if I had Ian's imagination, I could have quickly solved this dilemma. Unfortunately, only one option occurred to me.
“Dr. Farnsworth? Could you take off your glasses for a second, please?”
Looking back, I now realize why Farnsworth didn't feel obliged to honor my request. One: there is no good reason why one should remove one's eyewear when a complete stranger requests it, and two: the chances that the request will be complied with fall dramatically when said stranger has his hand at your eye level, wearing a white latex glove, and is quite obviously holding something.