Call me Gavin. That’s not my real name, of course, but who in this business uses their real name? It’s all Mack Sweetwood and Virginia LaCour around here: names with just the right combination of glamour and sleaze. So, yeah, that’s me. Gavin Steel. One more slab of beef around the pool. One more coked up, glistening loser baring it all for the wet dreams of America.
It beats the shit out of law school.
I was waiting on set with Mike Hawk. Say that out loud a couple of times. Yeah. That’s right. He was real proud of that shit. Took him a week to come up with it. We had worked together four times. He was bright and funny and great to be around, even if he was a little pretentious sometimes. Plus, he sucked cock like he invented the fucking blow job. He was a great guy. I’m standing there with Mike and this red haired girl named, I think, Misty. The two of them were, I shit you not, going over their lines. It never fails to amuse me how seriously some of these guys would take themselves. I mean, it’s the set of Bi-Bi Love 2, not Gone with the Wind. But they insisted that they were actors and they kept trying to inject drama into their projects when the only thing that needed to be injected in those movies were plenty of saran wrapped cocks.
So, we’re standing there on this beautiful day, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky like a kid’s drawing. The place is littered with beautiful naked or barely dressed people, smearing lotion and oil on each other waiting for the climactic orgy sequence to begin that will wrap up this epic. Not one single person there could have predicted the horrors that were coming: A catastrophe that, to this day, leaves me weak and cold when I think of it. I’ve been in therapy for two years now, and I still have nightmares. The smell of burning flesh and hair and tanning oil haunt me.
Jesus.
Even now, as I close my eyes, I can still see Missy or Misty or Mitzy with her hair in flames, screaming in baby oil-fueled agony, her skin crisping up like pork rinds as flames lick over her. People jumped into the pool to escape the fire, most of them drowning each other in their panic. A slick of oil on top of the water allowed the fire to spread there too. Even the pool was a death trap. Talking about it now, everything floods back and I can see that gorgeous California day transforming into a sick, Hell on earth. I can still feel the agony of the flames on my arm, and yeah, I know how lucky I am that I didn’t get it worse. I didn’t end up dead like Misty and so many others. I didn’t end up pissing through a tube for the rest of my life like Mike Hawk.
Nobody ever knew who started that fire that day. Nobody knew how it happened. Just that once it ignited, it blew through that oiled up crowd in seconds. And now, three years later, I’m just beginning to understand it all. And I don’t think it was an accident. I mean, how could it be? Even though the police asked everyone whose skin wasn’t crispy, they couldn’t even catch a damn lead. Every time an Aqua Net-laminated, blue haired old lady goes to light her Benson & Hedges 100s, I break into a cold sweat.
Therapy doesn’t help, either, since my therapist wants me. Seriously, she does. Every time I sit on that couch, she sits across from me in her leather wing chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, slow enough to give me a beaver shot; it just seems such a natural, fluid motion that I almost don’t even realize she’s doing it.
Yeah, I do.
Anyway, her blouse is always just tight enough that her nipples lift the fabric away from her breasts enough to let me know how cold it is in her office, or how hot she thinks I am. But, I digress. Therapy. What the hell do I think is going to happen? Suddenly, one day, I’ll wake up and be okay with watching my friends crisp up like the skin on a Thanksgiving turkey? Not fucking likely. And I told my therapist that, too. She said it takes time to get over a trauma like that. I don’t know… maybe.
In the meantime you just get on with the mundane aspects of life. Mundane? Me? Who's life once consisted of waking up next to a ridiculously hot and nubile body, a protein breakfast and five hour gym workout followed by hours and hours of doing what most of the world only fantasize about?
I mean, what more could you ask for? Days on end of every fucking wet dream ever conceived, and helping to create new ones. A world where nobody got old, where nobody had to wait until everyone left the bar and make do with whatever ugly easy bitch was left draped on a barstool. Where you could visit the doctor, catch a flight, take your car to get fixed or call in the plumber, and whatever licked your brain salaciously would instantly come into being. A world of pure Id.
People talk about how porn isn't real, how that's not real life, but it was mine. When the director screamed “Cut!” I stopped being the plumber, the doctor, the pilot but I started the true joy of myself. I became Gavin Steel, porn star.
A celebrity, an adoration, a godhood. People would sit in front of their screens and get off on my body, imagine themselves there with me. Even if you're a rampant slut you might help a hundred people cum, tops. In your lifetime. I was helping thousands of people cum daily.
Did I mention I got paid? A stupid amount of money, because my sex addiction turned into my work addiction, and when I hit the clubs or the DVD signings it became my narcissism, and when I took any eager fan home it became my prowess.
It was a perfect celebrity too, I could switch it on and off as I so chose. I'd like to see Madonna do that. If I went to the right places I was Gavin Steel, bow at my feet and...Worship. My. Cock. When I just felt like being a normal anonymous whatever I'd steer off somewhere else, and I was just some random hot guy doing his grocery shopping, or drinking coffee.
That gap started closing more and more though. I lost the grip on the mundane completely, what the hell did I want it for? I wanted to be Gavin Steel forever and ever, international stud, pinnacle of masculine beauty extraordinaire. The more movies I made the more I would get paid, the more award shows I could attend, the more I could leave behind of my perfection for when I was old and grey and eventually dead. I would not be forgotten. People would still get off on me, even when I was in the grave, and that's something very few people can say.
But for the moment I was still the best goddamn sexiest thing that ever slapped his cock on the whole planet.
Now suddenly, I was a survivor of the California Pool Orgy Barbecue. Yes, the media has a sense of humour. I think the next person who quips me with a hot dog joke is going to get punched in the face. It was a perverse irony, that my face had been plastered across international news, that my DVD sales had risen, and I could not. That fire killed Gavin Steel, because every time I thought of sex my penis would shrivel up and cry, for I could not get the taste of charred human flesh and burning lube out of my mouth.
I have to admit, I wasn’t in the best of moods before the shoot. First, this wasn’t my film. I was subbing for Donald DiDildo, who had come down with the clap. Second, my agent Rodney had met with the film company (Balls to the Walls Productions) earlier that day for contract negotiations. This was to be the thing that propelled me from star to Super Star: I was signing an exclusive with BTW, for the next two years, they would own my ass, literally. For that honor, I was to get a nice salary bump, approval of directors, scripts, co-stars…and a few under the table perks as well.
As I was leaving my apartment, Rodney called me.
‘Gavin, I’m sorry, but the deal is off. Our negotiations broke down this afternoon. ‘
‘What the fuck, Rodney? This was supposed to be a cakewalk! You told me there would be no problems! What the Hell happened?’
‘They aren’t thrilled with the idea of you switching to straight-only films. You’re the hottest Gay-For-Pay on the market. If you insist, I’ll go to bat for you, but it will weaken your negotiation stance. You won’t be able to command your usual salary.’
‘FUCK THAT RODNEY! I am GAVIN FUCKING STEEL! I am done being jerkoff material for those faggots, they have made enough money off of me. It’s time for me to call the shots. FIX THIS!’
‘Let me see what I can do, but you have to finish the current film today, it’s a sign of good faith.’
‘SON OF A BITCH! I am not doing ANOTHER FUCKING THING until you fix this.’
‘Gavin. Do the God Damned Flick or you won’t be in a position to negotiate your way out of a paper bag. The whole industry will turn its back on you for breach of contract. You won’t even be able to get a part on the Red Shoe Diaries.’
‘Fine.’
I slammed the phone down and sped off to the shoot, running every red light, blasting my stereo with the top down. I was still 20 minutes late.
The director made a bee line to me. ‘What the fuck, Gavin? We’ve been waiting on you to shoot.’
‘Don’t give me any fucking attitude, Larry. You need me for this film. Get me a fluffer and I will ready in 5.’
It ended up taking 2 fluffers and 20 minutes to get me ready. Usually, my personal life does not interfere with my work, but today, work was interfering in my life.
‘Dammit, Julio. Not so much with the teeth!’
‘Sorry, papi. Ju know how mush I like to service you.’ Julio’s accent was all fake, like his name. In reality he was Joseph Smith (I kid you not) from Utah. But he knew how much that turned me on.
As the filming progressed, all I could think about was how I was the one getting screwed by this company. I guess I let my displeasure show a little too much, mouthing off at everyone and telling anyone who would listen not to ever work for these people again. Larry finally called lunch. I didn’t even bother to shower. I threw on a bathrobe and sped off to the nutrition store for a power shake. I had two big 3-way scenes this afternoon, and I’ll be damned if Gavin Steel doesn’t give it his all.
I walked into the shop, barefoot, with just the white robe on. Of course, the counter help was some little faggot.
‘Oh my God. It’s Gavin Steel!!!!’
Here we go again.
‘Hey there, what’s your name?’ My professionalism tries to step in. Always keep the fans happy.
‘It’s Freddy. Don’t you remember me? We made out at a party about six months ago.’
‘Uh…sure I remember that. You were pretty hot. I just forgot your name, that’s all.’
Wrong. Thing. To. Say.
‘You can’t be bothered to remember my name??? You went on and on about how hot I was. You said you would take me to your place. You said I might be Personal Assistant material. We spent 2 hours together.’
Crap. That line works on everyone. How can I be expected to remember every guy I swap spit with? I mean it was six months ago.
‘Oh FREDDY. Yeah, I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve just been busy. Plus, I don’t know how much longer I am going to be doing this. I was really thinking of you. Would it be fair to hire you if I am gonna get out of the biz?’
‘FUCK YOU, GAVIN STEEL!! I have a fucking college degree in chemistry. Why do you think I am working in this stupid convenience store? I have been waiting for your call. I knew if I worked here, someday you would walk in and remember me. Then I could leave this shitty job and this shitty life behind. You FUCKING Owe Me!’
Man, I have to diffuse this, and quickly.
‘Freddy. I am so sorry. Listen, I’ve got to get back to the set, but why don’t we talk about this over coffee or something? Even if I leave the biz, I am sure I’ll still need a PA.’
‘But you can’t quit. You’re the hottest guy on screen. Let me show you how grateful I would be.’
‘Sorry, don’t have that kind of time. Gotta get back to the set. But I will give you a preview.’
I spread my robe open wide, so he could get a flash of The Real Steel.
‘Take a look, take a picture if you want. This may be the last time you see it. I am fucking done with this business.’
Aaand, here we go. Quiet on the set. Cue the music and fade the light. I mean seriously, did this little fucker actually think that his pimply ass actually had a chance? I’m Gavin Fucking Steel. Literally.
Okay, fine. He did have a chance. I like to be honest, with myself at least. Change my conversation with Larry and reschedule my 3-way for tomorrow. I’m a professional for Christ’s sake and no matter what I refused to sabotage myself. Sure I could have thrown him a bone (yeah that’s right), but I was not in the mood to coddle a star-struck fool, for fuck’s sake.
I closed my robe and turned my back on Mr. Fucking Too Excitable and headed to the back coolers to get my protein shake. There you go. My back plus excitable. What does that equal? I’d be lucky if I got 5 minutes. The little faggot.
I grabbed the shake out of the cooler and snatched an extra large bottle of water. I needed to hydrate. I never could get enough water on a shoot. Sure, the production company always provided well for us on set. But I could feel my tongue sticking to my gums.
On my way back up to the counter, I cracked opened the water and started to drink. I had honed my gulping skills at college parties with beer and funnels. I had made them into a craft over the years, being Gavin Steel. Not too hard, really. You just have to relax your jaw and get to the point that pressure on the back of your tongue and throat didn’t kick in your gag reflex.
Snagging a power bar I slapped my purchases on the counter in front of the goggle eyed fool staring at me awe struck. And I waited.
“So how much, buddy?” I snapped.
“Nothing man! On the house!”
And because I was who I was, I grabbed my stuff and walked out drinking my water. I guess it was a good thing the little bugger was working, now that I think about it. My wallet was tucked into the pocket in my jeans, hanging neatly on a hook in my trailer. Yeah, MY trailer. I wondered briefly if he was going to pay for my goods out of his own pocket. Made for a great story, I guess. I was in a crappy mood, but I didn’t want him to get fired. I made a mental note to go back to that store later and, I don’t know, be nice I guess.
Walking on set, I saw Mike chatting with Misty (Muffy? Miffy?) and headed towards them. That’s when I realized that they were actually running lines for the three way.
What’s to practice? “Ohhh” but with more feeling? Or how about “I’m not sure about this” with just the right mixture of tentative curiosity and slight wariness.
And then I heard a scream. I mean a real scream not a “work” scream.
All eyes shot towards the direction of the scream. From where I was standing, I saw three blondes and the token black guy in this movie standing near the hot tub -I only knew the black guy by his porn name, “Lincoln Logg”. Blonde #1 on my left was the screamer.
Like the rest of us on set, they were all naked. But another dude was standing with them -fully dressed in some raggedy ass looking threads. Dude was behind blonde #2, (Carissa? Clarista? Clytemnestra?) and from where I was, it looked like he was kissing her on the back of her head.
That was until I saw the blood.
Dude backed away from her, and as he did, I could see blood running out of the back of her head, flowing through her near-white platinum blond hair. The path of her spine was like a valley with a red river running through it. As the guy pulled away, I could see dripping arcs of gunk and goo hanging in the air between the blonde’s head and his mouth. I could see that he was chewing and I could see what looked like her brains sticking out of the fucking hole in her head.
Blonde #2 collapsed forward towards the other two blondes, who in a fucked up display, moved out of the way and ran off, letting her fall face-first towards the hot tub. Lincoln caught her and lowered her to a seated position against the hot tub wall -accidentally slapping her in the face with his 13-inch monster in the process. At the same time, he turned his bald head to face up towards dude to ask him what the fuck his problem was. Linc turned just in time to see teeth bite into his skull right above the eyes.
Fucking hell broke loose. Fake tits remained perfectly still as blondes ran in every direction trying to get away from whatever was happening. People were pushing and shoving each other to get out of either of the set’s two exits. The oil on their bodies allowed them to slip together into one tight spray tanned mass that once pushed together was hard to get apart. At the exit nearest the hot tub, a mass of people pushing together shifted to the left, knocking a fake ass looking tiki torch off its base and onto a pile of towels on the hot tub’s wooden deck.
At the other exit, more screaming started. The group of people who had plowed into the doorway and were now stuck, started yelling and the people I could see were squirming and slamming into each other. A dude in the back of the glob of people fell down backwards and got stepped on as they started trying to move backwards. As the doorway cleared, I could see that dude that had chomped on the blonde’s head had some friends. I could see them chewing too and noticed a couple of other people bleeding from the head. The story in the first doorway was the same.
The fire had spread quickly from the deck to the walls of the set and the walls of the building. At this point, we had a windowless wall on behind us on one side and a wall of fire and well, some god damned zombies on the 3 others. At the same time I saw Misty(?) slip on an oily spot and her catch her hair on fire as she landed on the hot tub deck, I noticed Linc chewing on the head of another blond. The blood from the wound on the side of her head was dripping all over her and Linc, flowing across his abs and then down and off the end of his cock onto a growing pool on the floor. While I tried to overcome the urge to throw up my lunch, I looked around and tried to figure out what the fuck to do next.
Flames were licking at my bare skin. My bronzed, flawless skin. I had to do something - but everywhere I looked, there was more chaos. Half of the cast and crew were engulfed in flames, and the ones who weren't, were being munched on by zombies. And then they, in turn, were becoming zombies. Mother-fucking zombies!! What the hell?!? How did my life suddenly become an '80s horror movie? Worse still, the kind you would've seen Rhonda Shear hosting on late-night TV. If I weren't scared out of my ever-lovin' mind, I'd have probably been doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter.
As I snapped back to reality, I noticed the canvas tarp that had been covering the indoor pool. It was laying in the corner of the set, folded up and forgotten. So far it seemed unscathed by the fire and, even though it seemed like a long-shot, I figured that it was my best bet to survive this ordeal. Doing my best to dodge zombies and flaming porn stars, I ran over and started crawling under it - quickly unfolding as much as I needed to cover my body.
Peeking out just slightly from the canvas, I could see Tawny (Tanya? Tana?) chewing on the inner thigh of my buddy Harry Coxwell (yep, say that one out loud a few times too). As she happily feasted on the beefy stud, one of the crew-members fell on top of them, catching both Harry and Zombie-Tawny (Tina? Tyanna?) on fire.
I looked up from that scene, and realized that the original zombies - as well as many of the newly-created ones - were catching on fire, right alongside the siliconed bimbos, donkey-hung himbos and hapless crew-members.
The smell of burning human flesh and hair finally became too much for me, and I blacked out.
I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I came to, I realized I no longer heard any shouting or screaming. I was still under the protective cover of the canvas tarp, and as I rubbed my dry, stinging eyes, I tried to shake off the fogginess that was clouding my mind.
Cautiously, I peeked out from under the canvas again as I had earlier. Surveying the situation, I saw several police officers, firemen, paramedics and EMTs. They were tending to the scant few survivors and covering the bodies of the rest. It was a grisly scene, but I couldn't help chuckling when I saw our lispy little assistant director slumped, doggy-style, over the big, burly key grip. I have a sick sense of humor, what can I say?
As I snickered, my smoke-filled lungs caused me to rasp and cough, and I heard someone shout, "Hey, there's a survivor over there!"
Several men then rushed over and helped me out from under the tarp. Most of what happened directly after that is blur now, but as I was being examined by the paramedics, I remember the fire chief telling me that I was damn lucky to have survived pretty much physically unscathed. Apparently the canvas was flame retardant, but by all rights should not have been able to withstand the intensity of a fire of this magnitude.
I'm glad the fire chief thinks I'm lucky, but me and my traumatized dick sure don't feel that way.
I wake up in the hospital, feeling nothing but searing pain all over my body. Screaming out, the day nurse comes running in.
‘Shhh…it’s ok, we’ll get you some more morphine.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘4 days. You’ve been in and out of consciousness.’
‘Why am I strapped down?’
‘The restraints are for your own safety. You tend to thrash around in your sleep. That’s not going to help the healing process, Honey.’
She injects morphine into my IV and I drift off. But the sleep is anything but restful, as I relive each horrifying moment: flames, smoke…zombies???!! Must be the drugs. Zombies aren’t real.
When I wake up, it’s dark outside. How long have I been out? Who knows? The pain has gone from unbearable to merely excruciating. I lay in the dark, trying to piece the events of the last few days together. Every time I think I have it, those stupid zombies come back into focus. Man, that must some good morphine. Zombies…It would be funny if I could laugh. The pain comes back in full force. I press the button for the night nurse.
A few minutes later, a figure enters the dark room and starts fiddling with machines and IV tubes. I can’t make out which nurse it is, it’s so dark in the room. After a couple of minutes, I do realize it’s a male nurse. First time since I have been here a male nurse has waited on me.
‘Nurse? When do I get to talk to a doctor? I don’t know how long I have been here, but I would like to know what’s going on and what happened. My memory is kinda flakey.’
‘Memory, flakey? What do you remember? I need to know so we can inform the doctor.’ Did that voice seem familiar? Maybe he had been in here before.
I began to spell out what I remembered. I hesitated to bring up zombies, but I decided it would be medically relevant if I was hallucinating.
‘Zombies? Well, that’s not exactly correct. I would use the term Deformed Clones, myself.’ The nurse turned on the light and in that instant I recognized him: Freddy, the Convenience Store Stalker.
He walked over to me and injected me with something. I tried to scream, but my face was paralyzed.
‘You see, Gavin we didn’t just ‘Swap Spit’ that night. I gave you the best head of your life. Although I am sure you use that line on everyone. Not one to swallow, I spit into the nearest empty cup. It was then that I got the idea to use that spunk to make my own Gavin Steel, to keep with me forever. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to swipe cash and various sundry materials from my store to help pay for this. Working part time as a sex line operator helped out a bit too.
Every day, I inched closer and closer to growing a clone. But something went wrong. No matter how I altered the procedure, the clone not only ended up rejecting its own flesh, but it Would Not Die. Even beheading them didn’t quite work. I would have a headless body writing around in my basement, with a detached head in the next room, screaming. Still I kept trying, all the while depleting my supply of Steel Spunk. The number of clones kept rising. They didn’t need to eat, so I kept them in a storage unit behind your studio.
When you came in the other day and couldn’t even remember my FUCKING NAME! I decided the world would be better off without another asshole of a porn star. As soon as you left, I went over to the storage unit and let my clones out. Turns out they do like to eat…human flesh. They tore up your pathetic little film shoot. I watched the whole thing, and in the process found the one thing that can kill my clones, Fire. Once they ignited that was that. End of story. So that worked out well, the evidence is all gone. And to top it all off, here you are, a burnt husk of a man, no longer useful to the profession you spent your whole life promoting. But don’t worry dear, I have use for you. Oh no not like that. Do you really think I would want to fuck a burnt up freak like you? Don’t make me laugh. No, I am going to keep you alive and harvest your DNA. You see, the DNA works best when the body it’s harvested is alive. And who knows? Maybe I can regenerate some skin and use the bits of you that aren’t horribly deformed. Then I can have my own Gavin, forever and forever.’ Freddy laughed.
I could not believe my ears, and here I was, completely powerless to do anything. I was going to spend the rest of my life a prisoner to some little kooky obsessed fan. Well, I had spent my life being wanted for my body.
‘Now, Gavin, I am going to induce a coma and cart you downstairs to the morgue. By the time you wake up, you’ll be in my basement…forever.’
As Freddy injected me sleep overtakes me. The last thing I remember is my room door opening.
I was sitting around the house feeling bad that Gavin was in the hospital, scarred for life because I had caught the clap. For days I waffled about going to visit him. For all I knew, he didn’t want to see me. I’m not sure I would have wanted to in his shoes. Finally, I decided I needed to see him for myself to make sure he was ok, and ask him to forgive me. I went to the nearest floral shop and got him a nice bouquet to brighten his room. Never let it be said that Don DiDildo wasn’t thoughtful.
It takes me a while to find his room, but when I do, I hear someone talking to him. I decided to wait in the hall. Don’t want to bother him with too many people at once. As I sit on the bench across from his door. I begin to listen to what is being said. Clones? Fire? Coma? What the fuck? Obviously, whoever this guy is, he’s a total whackjob. I burst open the door just in time to see the fuckwad inject something into Gavin. I grab him by the neck and throw him across the room. He lands against the wall with a sickening thud. The noise brings in the night nurse. She screams and calls security.
Six months later, I am released from the burn unit. I’ll never look like the porn star that I was, but I am healed and can pretty much function like a normal human being. The downtime gave me opportunity to take stock of where Gavin Steel should go from here. I can no longer be a performer, but I managed to get me a new agent, who scored me an even better deal with Balls to the Wall. Now, I have my own production unit, and I can direct and produce. It keeps me in the business, and I am still giving pleasure to thousands of viewers, just from behind the camera. I’d love to keep talking to you about this, but I am late for a production meeting for ‘Zombie Sluts Beach Party VI.’
Friday, May 22, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Call Me Gavin
Call me Gavin. That’s not my real name, of course, but who in this business uses their real name? It’s all Mack Sweetwood and Virginia LaCour around here: names with just the right combination of glamour and sleaze. So, yeah, that’s me. Gavin Steel. One more slab of beef around the pool. One more coked up, glistening loser baring it all for the wet dreams of America.
It beats the shit out of law school.
I was waiting on set with Mike Hawk. Say that out loud a couple of times. Yeah. That’s right. He was real proud of that shit. Took him a week to come up with it. We had worked together four times. He was bright and funny and great to be around, even if he was a little pretentious sometimes. Plus, he sucked cock like he invented the fucking blow job. He was a great guy. I’m standing there with Mike and this red haired girl named, I think, Misty. The two of them were, I shit you not, going over their lines. It never fails to amuse me how seriously some of these guys would take themselves. I mean, it’s the set of Bi-Bi Love 2, not Gone with the Wind. But they insisted that they were actors and they kept trying to inject drama into their projects when the only thing that needed to be injected in those movies were plenty of saran wrapped cocks.
So, we’re standing there on this beautiful day, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky like a kid’s drawing. The place is littered with beautiful naked or barely dressed people, smearing lotion and oil on each other waiting for the climactic orgy sequence to begin that will wrap up this epic. Not one single person there could have predicted the horrors that were coming: A catastrophe that, to this day, leaves me weak and cold when I think of it. I’ve been in therapy for two years now, and I still have nightmares. The smell of burning flesh and hair and tanning oil haunt me.
Jesus.
Even now, as I close my eyes, I can still see Missy or Misty or Mitzy with her hair in flames, screaming in baby oil-fueled agony, her skin crisping up like pork rinds as flames lick over her. People jumped into the pool to escape the fire, most of them drowning each other in their panic. A slick of oil on top of the water allowed the fire to spread there too. Even the pool was a death trap. Talking about it now, everything floods back and I can see that gorgeous California day transforming into a sick, Hell on earth. I can still feel the agony of the flames on my arm, and yeah, I know how lucky I am that I didn’t get it worse. I didn’t end up dead like Misty and so many others. I didn’t end up pissing through a tube for the rest of my life like Mike Hawk.
Nobody ever knew who started that fire that day. Nobody knew how it happened. Just that once it ignited, it blew through that oiled up crowd in seconds. And now, three years later, I’m just beginning to understand it all. And I don’t think it was an accident. I mean, how could it be? Even though the police asked everyone whose skin wasn’t crispy, they couldn’t even catch a damn lead. Every time an Aqua Net-laminated, blue haired old lady goes to light her Benson & Hedges 100s, I break into a cold sweat.
Therapy doesn’t help, either, since my therapist wants me. Seriously, she does. Every time I sit on that couch, she sits across from me in her leather wing chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, slow enough to give me a beaver shot; it just seems such a natural, fluid motion that I almost don’t even realize she’s doing it.
Yeah, I do.
Anyway, her blouse is always just tight enough that her nipples lift the fabric away from her breasts enough to let me know how cold it is in her office, or how hot she thinks I am. But, I digress. Therapy. What the hell do I think is going to happen? Suddenly, one day, I’ll wake up and be okay with watching my friends crisp up like the skin on a Thanksgiving turkey? Not fucking likely. And I told my therapist that, too. She said it takes time to get over a trauma like that. I don’t know… maybe.
In the meantime you just get on with the mundane aspects of life. Mundane? Me? Who's life once consisted of waking up next to a ridiculously hot and nubile body, a protein breakfast and five hour gym workout followed by hours and hours of doing what most of the world only fantasize about?
I mean, what more could you ask for? Days on end of every fucking wet dream ever conceived, and helping to create new ones. A world where nobody got old, where nobody had to wait until everyone left the bar and make do with whatever ugly easy bitch was left draped on a barstool. Where you could visit the doctor, catch a flight, take your car to get fixed or call in the plumber, and whatever licked your brain salaciously would instantly come into being. A world of pure Id.
People talk about how porn isn't real, how that's not real life, but it was mine. When the director screamed “Cut!” I stopped being the plumber, the doctor, the pilot but I started the true joy of myself. I became Gavin Steel, porn star.
A celebrity, an adoration, a godhood. People would sit in front of their screens and get off on my body, imagine themselves there with me. Even if you're a rampant slut you might help a hundred people cum, tops. In your lifetime. I was helping thousands of people cum daily.
Did I mention I got paid? A stupid amount of money, because my sex addiction turned into my work addiction, and when I hit the clubs or the DVD signings it became my narcissism, and when I took any eager fan home it became my prowess.
It was a perfect celebrity too, I could switch it on and off as I so chose. I'd like to see Madonna do that. If I went to the right places I was Gavin Steel, bow at my feet and...Worship. My. Cock. When I just felt like being a normal anonymous whatever I'd steer off somewhere else, and I was just some random hot guy doing his grocery shopping, or drinking coffee.
That gap started closing more and more though. I lost the grip on the mundane completely, what the hell did I want it for? I wanted to be Gavin Steel forever and ever, international stud, pinnacle of masculine beauty extraordinaire. The more movies I made the more I would get paid, the more award shows I could attend, the more I could leave behind of my perfection for when I was old and grey and eventually dead. I would not be forgotten. People would still get off on me, even when I was in the grave, and that's something very few people can say.
But for the moment I was still the best goddamn sexiest thing that ever slapped his cock on the whole planet.
Now suddenly, I was a survivor of the California Pool Orgy Barbecue. Yes, the media has a sense of humour. I think the next person who quips me with a hot dog joke is going to get punched in the face. It was a perverse irony, that my face had been plastered across international news, that my DVD sales had risen, and I could not. That fire killed Gavin Steel, because every time I thought of sex my penis would shrivel up and cry, for I could not get the taste of charred human flesh and burning lube out of my mouth.
I have to admit, I wasn’t in the best of moods before the shoot. My agent Rodney had met with the film company (Balls to the Walls Productions) earlier that day for contract negotiations. This was to be the thing that propelled me from star to Super Star: I was signing an exclusive with BTW, for the next two years, they would own my ass, literally. For that honor, I was to get a nice salary bump, approval of directors, scripts, co-stars…and a few under the table perks as well.
As I was leaving my apartment, Rodney called me.
‘Gavin, I’m sorry, but the deal is off. Our negotiations broke down this afternoon. ‘
‘What the fuck, Rodney? This was supposed to be a cakewalk! You told me there would be no problems! What the Hell happened?’
‘They aren’t thrilled with the idea of you switching to straight-only films. You’re the hottest Gay-For-Pay on the market. If you insist, I’ll go to bat for you, but it will weaken your negotiation stance. You won’t be able to command your usual salary.’
‘FUCK THAT RODNEY! I am GAVIN FUCKING STEEL! I am done being jerkoff material for those faggots, they have made enough money off of me. It’s time for me to call the shots. FIX THIS!’
‘Let me see what I can do, but you have to finish the current film today, it’s a sign of good faith.’
‘SON OF A BITCH! I am not doing ANOTHER FUCKING THING until you fix this.’
‘Gavin. Do the God Damned Flick or you won’t be in a position to negotiate your way out of a paper bag. The whole industry will turn its back on you for breach of contract. You won’t even be able to get a part on the Red Shoe Diaries.’
‘Fine.’
I slammed the phone down and sped off to the shoot, running every red light, blasting my stereo with the top down. I was still 20 minutes late.
The director made a bee line to me. ‘What the fuck, Gavin? We’ve been waiting on you to shoot.’
‘Don’t give me any fucking attitude, Larry. You need me for this film. Get me a fluffer and I will ready in 5.’
It ended up taking 2 fluffers and 20 minutes to get me ready. Usually, my personal life does not interfere with my work, but today, work was interfering in my life.
‘Dammit, Julio. Not so much with the teeth!’
‘Sorry, papi. Ju know how mush I like to service you.’ Julio’s accent was all fake, like his name. In reality he was John Smith (I kid you not) from Utah. But he knew how much that turned me on.
As the filming progressed, all I could think about was how I was the one getting screwed by this company. I guess I let my displeasure show a little too much, mouthing off at everyone and telling anyone who would listen not to ever work for these people again. Larry finally called lunch. I didn’t even bother to shower. I threw on a bathrobe and sped off to the nutrition store for a power shake. I had two big 3-way scenes this afternoon, and I’ll be damned if Gavin Steel doesn’t give it his all.
I walked into the shop, barefoot, with just the white robe on. Of course, the counter help was some little faggot.
‘Oh my God. It’s Gavin Steel!!!! I have all of your movies!! You are so fucking hot. Oh My God! You aren’t wearing anything under that are you? Could I just take a peek at the flesh, in the flesh?’
I spread my robe open wide, so he could get a flash of The Real Steel.
‘Take a look, take a picture if you want. This may be the last time you see it. I am fucking done with this business.’
Aaand, here we go. Quiet on the set. Cue the music and fade the light. I mean seriously, did this little fucker actually think that his pimply ass actually had a chance? I’m Gavin Fucking Steel. Literally.
Okay, fine. He did have a chance. I like to be honest, with myself at least. Change my conversation with Larry and reschedule my 3-way for tomorrow. I’m a professional for Christ’s sake and no matter what I refused to sabotage myself. Sure I could have thrown him a bone (yeah that’s right), but I was not in the mood to coddle a star-struck fool, for fuck’s sake.
I closed my robe and turned my back on Mr. Fucking Too Excitable and headed to the back coolers to get my protein shake. There you go. My back plus excitable. What does that equal? I’d be lucky if I got 5 minutes. The little faggot.
I grabbed the shake out of the cooler and snatched an extra large bottle of water. I needed to hydrate. I never could get enough water on a shoot. Sure, the production company always provided well for us on set. But I could feel my tongue sticking to my gums.
On my way back up to the counter, I cracked opened the water and started to drink. I had honed my gulping skills at college parties with beer and funnels. I had made them into a craft over the years, being Gavin Steel. Not too hard, really. You just have to relax your jaw and get to the point that pressure on the back of your tongue and throat didn’t kick in your gag reflex.
Snagging a power bar I slapped my purchases on the counter in front of the goggle eyed fool staring at me awe struck. And I waited.
“So how much, buddy?” I snapped.
“Man, I cannot believe that Gavin Steel is in my store. I can’t FUCKING believe that I just saw Gavin Fucking Steel’s cock!” He squealed as he continued to just stare at me. Well at the area below my belt.
“Hey, sure. That’s exciting. How much?”
“Nothing man! On the house!”
And because I was who I was, I grabbed my stuff and walked out drinking my water. I guess it was a good thing the little bugger was working, now that I think about it. My wallet was tucked into the pocket in my jeans, hanging neatly on a hook in my trailer. Yeah, MY trailer. I wondered briefly if he was going to pay for my goods out of his own pocket. Made for a great story, I guess. I was in a crappy mood, but I didn’t want him to get fired. I made a mental note to go back to that store later and, I don’t know, be nice I guess.
Walking on set, I saw Mike chatting with Misty (Muffy? Miffy?) and headed towards them. That’s when I realized that they were actually running lines for the three way.
What’s to practice? “Ohhh” but with more feeling? Or how about “I’m not sure about this” with just the right mixture of tentative curiosity and slight wariness.
And then I heard a scream. I mean a real scream not a “work” scream.
All eyes shot towards the direction of the scream. From where I was standing, I saw three blondes and the token black guy in this movie standing near the hot tub -I only knew the black guy by his porn name, “Lincoln Logg”. Blonde #1 on my left was the screamer.
Like the rest of us on set, they were all naked. But another dude was standing with them -fully dressed in some raggedy ass looking threads. Dude was behind blonde #2, (Carissa? Clarista? Clytemnestra?) and from where I was, it looked like he was kissing her on the back of her head.
That was until I saw the blood.
Dude backed away from her, and as he did, I could see blood running out of the back of her head, flowing through her near-white platinum blond hair. The path of her spine was like a valley with a red river running through it. As the guy pulled away, I could see dripping arcs of gunk and goo hanging in the air between the blonde’s head and his mouth. I could see that he was chewing and I could see what looked like her brains sticking out of the fucking hole in her head.
Blonde #2 collapsed forward towards the other two blondes, who in a fucked up display, moved out of the way and ran off, letting her fall face-first towards the hot tub. Lincoln caught her and lowered her to a seated position against the hot tub wall -accidentally slapping her in the face with his 13-inch monster in the process. At the same time, he turned his bald head to face up towards dude to ask him what the fuck his problem was. Linc turned just in time to see teeth bite into his skull right above the eyes.
Fucking hell broke loose. Fake tits remained perfectly still as blondes ran in every direction trying to get away from whatever was happening. People were pushing and shoving each other to get out of either of the set’s two exits. The oil on their bodies allowed them to slip together into one tight spray tanned mass that once pushed together was hard to get apart. At the exit nearest the hot tub, a mass of people pushing together shifted to the left, knocking a fake ass looking tiki torch off its base and onto a pile of towels on the hot tub’s wooden deck.
At the other exit, more screaming started. The group of people who had plowed into the doorway and were now stuck, started yelling and the people I could see were squirming and slamming into each other. A dude in the back of the glob of people fell down backwards and got stepped on as they started trying to move backwards. As the doorway cleared, I could see that dude that had chomped on the blonde’s head had some friends. I could see them chewing too and noticed a couple of other people bleeding from the head. The story in the first doorway was the same.
The fire had spread quickly from the deck to the walls of the set and the walls of the building. At this point, we had a windowless wall on behind us on one side and a wall of fire and well, some god damned zombies on the 3 others. At the same time I saw Misty(?) slip on an oily spot and her catch her hair on fire as she landed on the hot tub deck, I noticed Linc chewing on the head of another blond. The blood from the wound on the side of her head was dripping all over her and Linc, flowing across his abs and then down and off the end of his cock onto a growing pool on the floor. While I tried to overcome the urge to throw up my lunch, I looked around and tried to figure out what the fuck to do next.
Flames were licking at my bare skin. My bronzed, flawless skin. I had to do something - but everywhere I looked, there was more chaos. Half of the cast and crew were engulfed in flames, and the ones who weren't, were being munched on by zombies. And then they, in turn, were becoming zombies. Mother-fucking zombies!! What the hell?!? How did my life suddenly become an '80s horror movie? Worse still, the kind you would've seen Rhonda Shear hosting on late-night TV. If I weren't scared out of my ever-lovin' mind, I'd have probably been doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter.
As I snapped back to reality, I noticed the canvas tarp that had been covering the indoor pool. It was laying in the corner of the set, folded up and forgotten. So far it seemed unscathed by the fire and, even though it seemed like a long-shot, I figured that it was my best bet to survive this ordeal. Doing my best to dodge zombies and flaming porn stars, I ran over and started crawling under it - quickly unfolding as much as I needed to cover my body.
Peeking out just slightly from the canvas, I could see Tawny (Tanya? Tana?) chewing on the inner thigh of my buddy Harry Coxwell (yep, say that one out loud a few times too). As she happily feasted on the beefy stud, one of the crew-members fell on top of them, catching both Harry and Zombie-Tawny (Tina? Tyanna?) on fire.
I looked up from that scene, and realized that the original zombies - as well as many of the newly-created ones - were catching on fire, right alongside the siliconed bimbos, donkey-hung himbos and hapless crew-members.
The smell of burning human flesh and hair finally became too much for me, and I blacked out.
I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I came to, I realized I no longer heard any shouting or screaming. I was still under the protective cover of the canvas tarp, and as I rubbed my dry, stinging eyes, I tried to shake off the fogginess that was clouding my mind.
Cautiously, I peeked out from under the canvas again as I had earlier. Surveying the situation, I saw several police officers, firemen, paramedics and EMTs. They were tending to the scant few survivors and covering the bodies of the rest. It was a grisly scene, but I couldn't help chuckling when I saw our lispy little assistant director slumped, doggy-style, over the big, burly key grip. I have a sick sense of humor, what can I say?
As I snickered, my smoke-filled lungs caused me to rasp and cough, and I heard someone shout, "Hey, there's a survivor over there!"
Several men then rushed over and helped me out from under the tarp. Most of what happened directly after that is blur now, but as I was being examined by the paramedics, I remember the fire chief telling me that I was damn lucky to have survived pretty much physically unscathed. Apparently the canvas was flame retardant, but by all rights should not have been able to withstand the intensity of a fire of this magnitude.
I'm glad the fire chief thinks I'm lucky, but me and my traumatized dick sure don't feel that way.
“So, doc, that’s how it plays out every night. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the nightmare starts all over again. Someone said it might be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - from the fire. But what I don’t get is why the zombies? I mean, it was horrible enough…”
My voice trailed off. Dry mostly, but I also felt like I had been yammering on for hours. I could see the glazed over expression on Dr. Collins’ puffy, cupie doll face. As hideous as the man was, I felt it was the best medicine. Dr. Ms. Jump-My-Bones simply wasn’t getting the job done with all her subtle-as-a-sledgehammer pen sucking and boy, is it hot in here’s.
“Well, I suppose I would agree with that assessment. It is likely that you are suffering from PTSD.”
Figures.
“It’s not unusual to relive these tragic events through nightmares for months – even years – afterward. But the good news is that through therapy and some anti-anxiety medication, we can help you move on from this, move toward getting your old self back.”
Great, my old self. Cupie doll must have seen some passing cloud over the poker face I had been trying to uphold throughout the session. Hell, I’ve been wearing it for years.
“I take it Gavin Steel isn’t exactly the man you want to get back to, is he?”
I simply stared for a moment. Then my eyes flicked down to my shoe where I had been, for some minutes, fiddling with a frayed edge.
“I thought as much. And that brings me to that most troubling aspect of your dream: the zombies.”
Joy. What kind of psycho-babble would spew forth from that pursed little doll’s mouth?
“I would venture that the flesh-eating zombies represent your true feelings for a business that you know, deep down, is eating you alive. It is devouring your mind, your body, and your soul. It has even taken from you your own name. Hasn’t it, Gavin?”
Supercilious bastard.
“And I would wager that there is a dash of survivor’s guilt beneath that well-cultivated demeanor of nonchalance and devil-may-care. You feign narcissism to keep these walls up, these wall that protect you from those who would hurt you physically and emotionally. However, over the years in the business, your walls have worn down and you have come to resent and hate those with whom you work so… closely. You may have even thought to yourself: I wish they would just burn in hell. And when they do… Well… Nightmares.”
The man was good, I had to admit. He could talk the Pope into tricking his ass all over Rome.
I left cupie doll’s office around four, and simply drove to the beach. I wasn’t in the mood to face my demons – real or imagined. I wondered if the horror I witnessed would cling to me like the scent of charred bodies for the rest of my life. There I was, the terrified, limp-dicked sole survivor of the Poolside Porno Pyre, as the latest media installment of the story called it. I could feel myself losing touch with Gavin Steel and asked myself – only half-jokingly – what my real name was again. It was silly and stupid in that way when you can’t find your keys and they’re right in your pocket. It kinda freaked me out. Maybe cupie doll was on to something. Maybe I would give it a try.
As the sun submerged into the Pacific, the glow of the city cast a jaundiced wash across the sky. The beach-goers had long since fled and I found myself alone with the surf and the distant hum of traffic. To my right, some yards away, a quiet quartet sat around a fire making out. I found it somehow odd that the “free love” propagated by my business had found its way into normal America and that now you could regularly find Craigslist ads for dudes that wanted to double, triple, and quadruple tag-team some wanton cyber slut. The same guys who can’t shower near one another in the gym could, due to films like his, become aroused at the thought of sharing some stranger’s hole with half a dozen of his frat buddies.
Boy, were they really going at it, too. The campfire bunch, that is. I mean, it’s called “necking” dude, not canniba-
As the man lifted his head, an icy fear washed over me. Dangling from his clenched jaws was a ragged hunk of flesh. The bloody wound glistened in the flickering firelight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to close my eyes, to shake off this absurd delusion. But I was paralyzed.
At last, an anguished and altogether pitiful squeal escaped my throat.
Gulping down the last of his morsel, the man’s head snapped suddenly in my direction, as alert as an animal. He stared at me for a long moment, smiled with bloody teeth, and then hissed. The other three shot up, suddenly alert themselves.
Frightened, I pissed my pants. I told myself: get up, get up, GET UP!! But it seemed no use. My legs simply would not function. I just sat there in a puddle of wet sand, feeling it grow colder in the night air.
As the trio raced with a peculiar lope toward me, I somehow managed to will my wobbly legs into action. I ran down the beach toward the parking lot, toward the lights, toward people…. Away from this horrid nightmare.
It beats the shit out of law school.
I was waiting on set with Mike Hawk. Say that out loud a couple of times. Yeah. That’s right. He was real proud of that shit. Took him a week to come up with it. We had worked together four times. He was bright and funny and great to be around, even if he was a little pretentious sometimes. Plus, he sucked cock like he invented the fucking blow job. He was a great guy. I’m standing there with Mike and this red haired girl named, I think, Misty. The two of them were, I shit you not, going over their lines. It never fails to amuse me how seriously some of these guys would take themselves. I mean, it’s the set of Bi-Bi Love 2, not Gone with the Wind. But they insisted that they were actors and they kept trying to inject drama into their projects when the only thing that needed to be injected in those movies were plenty of saran wrapped cocks.
So, we’re standing there on this beautiful day, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky like a kid’s drawing. The place is littered with beautiful naked or barely dressed people, smearing lotion and oil on each other waiting for the climactic orgy sequence to begin that will wrap up this epic. Not one single person there could have predicted the horrors that were coming: A catastrophe that, to this day, leaves me weak and cold when I think of it. I’ve been in therapy for two years now, and I still have nightmares. The smell of burning flesh and hair and tanning oil haunt me.
Jesus.
Even now, as I close my eyes, I can still see Missy or Misty or Mitzy with her hair in flames, screaming in baby oil-fueled agony, her skin crisping up like pork rinds as flames lick over her. People jumped into the pool to escape the fire, most of them drowning each other in their panic. A slick of oil on top of the water allowed the fire to spread there too. Even the pool was a death trap. Talking about it now, everything floods back and I can see that gorgeous California day transforming into a sick, Hell on earth. I can still feel the agony of the flames on my arm, and yeah, I know how lucky I am that I didn’t get it worse. I didn’t end up dead like Misty and so many others. I didn’t end up pissing through a tube for the rest of my life like Mike Hawk.
Nobody ever knew who started that fire that day. Nobody knew how it happened. Just that once it ignited, it blew through that oiled up crowd in seconds. And now, three years later, I’m just beginning to understand it all. And I don’t think it was an accident. I mean, how could it be? Even though the police asked everyone whose skin wasn’t crispy, they couldn’t even catch a damn lead. Every time an Aqua Net-laminated, blue haired old lady goes to light her Benson & Hedges 100s, I break into a cold sweat.
Therapy doesn’t help, either, since my therapist wants me. Seriously, she does. Every time I sit on that couch, she sits across from me in her leather wing chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, slow enough to give me a beaver shot; it just seems such a natural, fluid motion that I almost don’t even realize she’s doing it.
Yeah, I do.
Anyway, her blouse is always just tight enough that her nipples lift the fabric away from her breasts enough to let me know how cold it is in her office, or how hot she thinks I am. But, I digress. Therapy. What the hell do I think is going to happen? Suddenly, one day, I’ll wake up and be okay with watching my friends crisp up like the skin on a Thanksgiving turkey? Not fucking likely. And I told my therapist that, too. She said it takes time to get over a trauma like that. I don’t know… maybe.
In the meantime you just get on with the mundane aspects of life. Mundane? Me? Who's life once consisted of waking up next to a ridiculously hot and nubile body, a protein breakfast and five hour gym workout followed by hours and hours of doing what most of the world only fantasize about?
I mean, what more could you ask for? Days on end of every fucking wet dream ever conceived, and helping to create new ones. A world where nobody got old, where nobody had to wait until everyone left the bar and make do with whatever ugly easy bitch was left draped on a barstool. Where you could visit the doctor, catch a flight, take your car to get fixed or call in the plumber, and whatever licked your brain salaciously would instantly come into being. A world of pure Id.
People talk about how porn isn't real, how that's not real life, but it was mine. When the director screamed “Cut!” I stopped being the plumber, the doctor, the pilot but I started the true joy of myself. I became Gavin Steel, porn star.
A celebrity, an adoration, a godhood. People would sit in front of their screens and get off on my body, imagine themselves there with me. Even if you're a rampant slut you might help a hundred people cum, tops. In your lifetime. I was helping thousands of people cum daily.
Did I mention I got paid? A stupid amount of money, because my sex addiction turned into my work addiction, and when I hit the clubs or the DVD signings it became my narcissism, and when I took any eager fan home it became my prowess.
It was a perfect celebrity too, I could switch it on and off as I so chose. I'd like to see Madonna do that. If I went to the right places I was Gavin Steel, bow at my feet and...Worship. My. Cock. When I just felt like being a normal anonymous whatever I'd steer off somewhere else, and I was just some random hot guy doing his grocery shopping, or drinking coffee.
That gap started closing more and more though. I lost the grip on the mundane completely, what the hell did I want it for? I wanted to be Gavin Steel forever and ever, international stud, pinnacle of masculine beauty extraordinaire. The more movies I made the more I would get paid, the more award shows I could attend, the more I could leave behind of my perfection for when I was old and grey and eventually dead. I would not be forgotten. People would still get off on me, even when I was in the grave, and that's something very few people can say.
But for the moment I was still the best goddamn sexiest thing that ever slapped his cock on the whole planet.
Now suddenly, I was a survivor of the California Pool Orgy Barbecue. Yes, the media has a sense of humour. I think the next person who quips me with a hot dog joke is going to get punched in the face. It was a perverse irony, that my face had been plastered across international news, that my DVD sales had risen, and I could not. That fire killed Gavin Steel, because every time I thought of sex my penis would shrivel up and cry, for I could not get the taste of charred human flesh and burning lube out of my mouth.
I have to admit, I wasn’t in the best of moods before the shoot. My agent Rodney had met with the film company (Balls to the Walls Productions) earlier that day for contract negotiations. This was to be the thing that propelled me from star to Super Star: I was signing an exclusive with BTW, for the next two years, they would own my ass, literally. For that honor, I was to get a nice salary bump, approval of directors, scripts, co-stars…and a few under the table perks as well.
As I was leaving my apartment, Rodney called me.
‘Gavin, I’m sorry, but the deal is off. Our negotiations broke down this afternoon. ‘
‘What the fuck, Rodney? This was supposed to be a cakewalk! You told me there would be no problems! What the Hell happened?’
‘They aren’t thrilled with the idea of you switching to straight-only films. You’re the hottest Gay-For-Pay on the market. If you insist, I’ll go to bat for you, but it will weaken your negotiation stance. You won’t be able to command your usual salary.’
‘FUCK THAT RODNEY! I am GAVIN FUCKING STEEL! I am done being jerkoff material for those faggots, they have made enough money off of me. It’s time for me to call the shots. FIX THIS!’
‘Let me see what I can do, but you have to finish the current film today, it’s a sign of good faith.’
‘SON OF A BITCH! I am not doing ANOTHER FUCKING THING until you fix this.’
‘Gavin. Do the God Damned Flick or you won’t be in a position to negotiate your way out of a paper bag. The whole industry will turn its back on you for breach of contract. You won’t even be able to get a part on the Red Shoe Diaries.’
‘Fine.’
I slammed the phone down and sped off to the shoot, running every red light, blasting my stereo with the top down. I was still 20 minutes late.
The director made a bee line to me. ‘What the fuck, Gavin? We’ve been waiting on you to shoot.’
‘Don’t give me any fucking attitude, Larry. You need me for this film. Get me a fluffer and I will ready in 5.’
It ended up taking 2 fluffers and 20 minutes to get me ready. Usually, my personal life does not interfere with my work, but today, work was interfering in my life.
‘Dammit, Julio. Not so much with the teeth!’
‘Sorry, papi. Ju know how mush I like to service you.’ Julio’s accent was all fake, like his name. In reality he was John Smith (I kid you not) from Utah. But he knew how much that turned me on.
As the filming progressed, all I could think about was how I was the one getting screwed by this company. I guess I let my displeasure show a little too much, mouthing off at everyone and telling anyone who would listen not to ever work for these people again. Larry finally called lunch. I didn’t even bother to shower. I threw on a bathrobe and sped off to the nutrition store for a power shake. I had two big 3-way scenes this afternoon, and I’ll be damned if Gavin Steel doesn’t give it his all.
I walked into the shop, barefoot, with just the white robe on. Of course, the counter help was some little faggot.
‘Oh my God. It’s Gavin Steel!!!! I have all of your movies!! You are so fucking hot. Oh My God! You aren’t wearing anything under that are you? Could I just take a peek at the flesh, in the flesh?’
I spread my robe open wide, so he could get a flash of The Real Steel.
‘Take a look, take a picture if you want. This may be the last time you see it. I am fucking done with this business.’
Aaand, here we go. Quiet on the set. Cue the music and fade the light. I mean seriously, did this little fucker actually think that his pimply ass actually had a chance? I’m Gavin Fucking Steel. Literally.
Okay, fine. He did have a chance. I like to be honest, with myself at least. Change my conversation with Larry and reschedule my 3-way for tomorrow. I’m a professional for Christ’s sake and no matter what I refused to sabotage myself. Sure I could have thrown him a bone (yeah that’s right), but I was not in the mood to coddle a star-struck fool, for fuck’s sake.
I closed my robe and turned my back on Mr. Fucking Too Excitable and headed to the back coolers to get my protein shake. There you go. My back plus excitable. What does that equal? I’d be lucky if I got 5 minutes. The little faggot.
I grabbed the shake out of the cooler and snatched an extra large bottle of water. I needed to hydrate. I never could get enough water on a shoot. Sure, the production company always provided well for us on set. But I could feel my tongue sticking to my gums.
On my way back up to the counter, I cracked opened the water and started to drink. I had honed my gulping skills at college parties with beer and funnels. I had made them into a craft over the years, being Gavin Steel. Not too hard, really. You just have to relax your jaw and get to the point that pressure on the back of your tongue and throat didn’t kick in your gag reflex.
Snagging a power bar I slapped my purchases on the counter in front of the goggle eyed fool staring at me awe struck. And I waited.
“So how much, buddy?” I snapped.
“Man, I cannot believe that Gavin Steel is in my store. I can’t FUCKING believe that I just saw Gavin Fucking Steel’s cock!” He squealed as he continued to just stare at me. Well at the area below my belt.
“Hey, sure. That’s exciting. How much?”
“Nothing man! On the house!”
And because I was who I was, I grabbed my stuff and walked out drinking my water. I guess it was a good thing the little bugger was working, now that I think about it. My wallet was tucked into the pocket in my jeans, hanging neatly on a hook in my trailer. Yeah, MY trailer. I wondered briefly if he was going to pay for my goods out of his own pocket. Made for a great story, I guess. I was in a crappy mood, but I didn’t want him to get fired. I made a mental note to go back to that store later and, I don’t know, be nice I guess.
Walking on set, I saw Mike chatting with Misty (Muffy? Miffy?) and headed towards them. That’s when I realized that they were actually running lines for the three way.
What’s to practice? “Ohhh” but with more feeling? Or how about “I’m not sure about this” with just the right mixture of tentative curiosity and slight wariness.
And then I heard a scream. I mean a real scream not a “work” scream.
All eyes shot towards the direction of the scream. From where I was standing, I saw three blondes and the token black guy in this movie standing near the hot tub -I only knew the black guy by his porn name, “Lincoln Logg”. Blonde #1 on my left was the screamer.
Like the rest of us on set, they were all naked. But another dude was standing with them -fully dressed in some raggedy ass looking threads. Dude was behind blonde #2, (Carissa? Clarista? Clytemnestra?) and from where I was, it looked like he was kissing her on the back of her head.
That was until I saw the blood.
Dude backed away from her, and as he did, I could see blood running out of the back of her head, flowing through her near-white platinum blond hair. The path of her spine was like a valley with a red river running through it. As the guy pulled away, I could see dripping arcs of gunk and goo hanging in the air between the blonde’s head and his mouth. I could see that he was chewing and I could see what looked like her brains sticking out of the fucking hole in her head.
Blonde #2 collapsed forward towards the other two blondes, who in a fucked up display, moved out of the way and ran off, letting her fall face-first towards the hot tub. Lincoln caught her and lowered her to a seated position against the hot tub wall -accidentally slapping her in the face with his 13-inch monster in the process. At the same time, he turned his bald head to face up towards dude to ask him what the fuck his problem was. Linc turned just in time to see teeth bite into his skull right above the eyes.
Fucking hell broke loose. Fake tits remained perfectly still as blondes ran in every direction trying to get away from whatever was happening. People were pushing and shoving each other to get out of either of the set’s two exits. The oil on their bodies allowed them to slip together into one tight spray tanned mass that once pushed together was hard to get apart. At the exit nearest the hot tub, a mass of people pushing together shifted to the left, knocking a fake ass looking tiki torch off its base and onto a pile of towels on the hot tub’s wooden deck.
At the other exit, more screaming started. The group of people who had plowed into the doorway and were now stuck, started yelling and the people I could see were squirming and slamming into each other. A dude in the back of the glob of people fell down backwards and got stepped on as they started trying to move backwards. As the doorway cleared, I could see that dude that had chomped on the blonde’s head had some friends. I could see them chewing too and noticed a couple of other people bleeding from the head. The story in the first doorway was the same.
The fire had spread quickly from the deck to the walls of the set and the walls of the building. At this point, we had a windowless wall on behind us on one side and a wall of fire and well, some god damned zombies on the 3 others. At the same time I saw Misty(?) slip on an oily spot and her catch her hair on fire as she landed on the hot tub deck, I noticed Linc chewing on the head of another blond. The blood from the wound on the side of her head was dripping all over her and Linc, flowing across his abs and then down and off the end of his cock onto a growing pool on the floor. While I tried to overcome the urge to throw up my lunch, I looked around and tried to figure out what the fuck to do next.
Flames were licking at my bare skin. My bronzed, flawless skin. I had to do something - but everywhere I looked, there was more chaos. Half of the cast and crew were engulfed in flames, and the ones who weren't, were being munched on by zombies. And then they, in turn, were becoming zombies. Mother-fucking zombies!! What the hell?!? How did my life suddenly become an '80s horror movie? Worse still, the kind you would've seen Rhonda Shear hosting on late-night TV. If I weren't scared out of my ever-lovin' mind, I'd have probably been doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter.
As I snapped back to reality, I noticed the canvas tarp that had been covering the indoor pool. It was laying in the corner of the set, folded up and forgotten. So far it seemed unscathed by the fire and, even though it seemed like a long-shot, I figured that it was my best bet to survive this ordeal. Doing my best to dodge zombies and flaming porn stars, I ran over and started crawling under it - quickly unfolding as much as I needed to cover my body.
Peeking out just slightly from the canvas, I could see Tawny (Tanya? Tana?) chewing on the inner thigh of my buddy Harry Coxwell (yep, say that one out loud a few times too). As she happily feasted on the beefy stud, one of the crew-members fell on top of them, catching both Harry and Zombie-Tawny (Tina? Tyanna?) on fire.
I looked up from that scene, and realized that the original zombies - as well as many of the newly-created ones - were catching on fire, right alongside the siliconed bimbos, donkey-hung himbos and hapless crew-members.
The smell of burning human flesh and hair finally became too much for me, and I blacked out.
I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I came to, I realized I no longer heard any shouting or screaming. I was still under the protective cover of the canvas tarp, and as I rubbed my dry, stinging eyes, I tried to shake off the fogginess that was clouding my mind.
Cautiously, I peeked out from under the canvas again as I had earlier. Surveying the situation, I saw several police officers, firemen, paramedics and EMTs. They were tending to the scant few survivors and covering the bodies of the rest. It was a grisly scene, but I couldn't help chuckling when I saw our lispy little assistant director slumped, doggy-style, over the big, burly key grip. I have a sick sense of humor, what can I say?
As I snickered, my smoke-filled lungs caused me to rasp and cough, and I heard someone shout, "Hey, there's a survivor over there!"
Several men then rushed over and helped me out from under the tarp. Most of what happened directly after that is blur now, but as I was being examined by the paramedics, I remember the fire chief telling me that I was damn lucky to have survived pretty much physically unscathed. Apparently the canvas was flame retardant, but by all rights should not have been able to withstand the intensity of a fire of this magnitude.
I'm glad the fire chief thinks I'm lucky, but me and my traumatized dick sure don't feel that way.
“So, doc, that’s how it plays out every night. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the nightmare starts all over again. Someone said it might be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - from the fire. But what I don’t get is why the zombies? I mean, it was horrible enough…”
My voice trailed off. Dry mostly, but I also felt like I had been yammering on for hours. I could see the glazed over expression on Dr. Collins’ puffy, cupie doll face. As hideous as the man was, I felt it was the best medicine. Dr. Ms. Jump-My-Bones simply wasn’t getting the job done with all her subtle-as-a-sledgehammer pen sucking and boy, is it hot in here’s.
“Well, I suppose I would agree with that assessment. It is likely that you are suffering from PTSD.”
Figures.
“It’s not unusual to relive these tragic events through nightmares for months – even years – afterward. But the good news is that through therapy and some anti-anxiety medication, we can help you move on from this, move toward getting your old self back.”
Great, my old self. Cupie doll must have seen some passing cloud over the poker face I had been trying to uphold throughout the session. Hell, I’ve been wearing it for years.
“I take it Gavin Steel isn’t exactly the man you want to get back to, is he?”
I simply stared for a moment. Then my eyes flicked down to my shoe where I had been, for some minutes, fiddling with a frayed edge.
“I thought as much. And that brings me to that most troubling aspect of your dream: the zombies.”
Joy. What kind of psycho-babble would spew forth from that pursed little doll’s mouth?
“I would venture that the flesh-eating zombies represent your true feelings for a business that you know, deep down, is eating you alive. It is devouring your mind, your body, and your soul. It has even taken from you your own name. Hasn’t it, Gavin?”
Supercilious bastard.
“And I would wager that there is a dash of survivor’s guilt beneath that well-cultivated demeanor of nonchalance and devil-may-care. You feign narcissism to keep these walls up, these wall that protect you from those who would hurt you physically and emotionally. However, over the years in the business, your walls have worn down and you have come to resent and hate those with whom you work so… closely. You may have even thought to yourself: I wish they would just burn in hell. And when they do… Well… Nightmares.”
The man was good, I had to admit. He could talk the Pope into tricking his ass all over Rome.
I left cupie doll’s office around four, and simply drove to the beach. I wasn’t in the mood to face my demons – real or imagined. I wondered if the horror I witnessed would cling to me like the scent of charred bodies for the rest of my life. There I was, the terrified, limp-dicked sole survivor of the Poolside Porno Pyre, as the latest media installment of the story called it. I could feel myself losing touch with Gavin Steel and asked myself – only half-jokingly – what my real name was again. It was silly and stupid in that way when you can’t find your keys and they’re right in your pocket. It kinda freaked me out. Maybe cupie doll was on to something. Maybe I would give it a try.
As the sun submerged into the Pacific, the glow of the city cast a jaundiced wash across the sky. The beach-goers had long since fled and I found myself alone with the surf and the distant hum of traffic. To my right, some yards away, a quiet quartet sat around a fire making out. I found it somehow odd that the “free love” propagated by my business had found its way into normal America and that now you could regularly find Craigslist ads for dudes that wanted to double, triple, and quadruple tag-team some wanton cyber slut. The same guys who can’t shower near one another in the gym could, due to films like his, become aroused at the thought of sharing some stranger’s hole with half a dozen of his frat buddies.
Boy, were they really going at it, too. The campfire bunch, that is. I mean, it’s called “necking” dude, not canniba-
As the man lifted his head, an icy fear washed over me. Dangling from his clenched jaws was a ragged hunk of flesh. The bloody wound glistened in the flickering firelight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to close my eyes, to shake off this absurd delusion. But I was paralyzed.
At last, an anguished and altogether pitiful squeal escaped my throat.
Gulping down the last of his morsel, the man’s head snapped suddenly in my direction, as alert as an animal. He stared at me for a long moment, smiled with bloody teeth, and then hissed. The other three shot up, suddenly alert themselves.
Frightened, I pissed my pants. I told myself: get up, get up, GET UP!! But it seemed no use. My legs simply would not function. I just sat there in a puddle of wet sand, feeling it grow colder in the night air.
As the trio raced with a peculiar lope toward me, I somehow managed to will my wobbly legs into action. I ran down the beach toward the parking lot, toward the lights, toward people…. Away from this horrid nightmare.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Next up: Risque City!!!
Well, our intrepid troupe is hard at work on our next story. This one is:
Not Safe For Work
Not for the Faint Hearted
Not Dull
I have already finished my contribution, and I am very interested to see where we end up.
Check back soon!
Not Safe For Work
Not for the Faint Hearted
Not Dull
I have already finished my contribution, and I am very interested to see where we end up.
Check back soon!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Credit where credit is due
The post just below this is the result of the combined efforts of ten people. Each one of us contributed 500 words or more to create this story. So it is only fitting that the authors are acknowledged here:
In Alphabetical Order (because our agents demanded it):
David Berger
Rob Byrnes
Corby Daniel
Sarah Deen
Randall Ham
Cullan Hudson
Christopher Kuczewski
Anthony Lower
Brian Sheperd
Lori Sprague
Thanks to everyone who participated!!
In Alphabetical Order (because our agents demanded it):
David Berger
Rob Byrnes
Corby Daniel
Sarah Deen
Randall Ham
Cullan Hudson
Christopher Kuczewski
Anthony Lower
Brian Sheperd
Lori Sprague
Thanks to everyone who participated!!
And here it is!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kathryn had never given much thought to her own mortality. It’s not like she thought she was immortal; she knew death would grace her doorway at some point. She had just never thought about it, until the day she witnessed a hit and run.
It was all over in seconds, but those frightening moments would be seared into Kathryn’s brain. Stepping out of Starbucks, she saw a man running across the street at the same time a red mustang was running a red light. The front of the mustang contacted the man’s knees and he flipped over and landed head first onto the windshield with a bone chilling thud. The car accelerated and the man rolled off onto the street as the car disappeared down the street. About a dozen people whipped out cell phones and all started dialing 911. Kathryn just stood there, frozen, unable or unwilling to help. All she could think about was the fact that she didn’t hear the squeal of brakes, like you would in a movie. Funny how something like that sticks in your mind.
The sirens snapped her out of her trance. She calmly sipped her latte and finished her walk to work.
The rest of the day was a blur of memos, meetings and late lunches as her mind kept coming back to that accident. Did the man survive? Is he permanently damaged? Why could she not run to him and offer help? What if it had been her? She mentally replayed the accident over and over, willing herself to see a clue. She came up with nothing new.
By the time she got home, it became a full blown obsession. She opened a bottle of wine and began to surf the ‘net, hoping for some news. It wasn’t like she had plans anyway. It had been months since her last real date and years since anything resembling a relationship. Was that what bothered her? Would she die before she landed a man? Was she that shallow?
By her second bottle of wine, Kathryn had convinced herself that the man in question was someone she knew, (possibly Gary) and that she had witnessed a murder. With Gary out of the way, she was sure she was next. She ran around her house, making sure every door was locked and every window bolted. She willed herself to stay awake, half-drunk, all night. She sat in the middle of the living room with a kitchen knife as her only defense. Every bump, every click, every dog howl was an intruder alert. At one point, a bark was so near; Kathryn screamed and stabbed a sofa cushion repeatedly. She began sobbing hysterically, certain that she was going to die and that it would be today.
The murderers (she was now sure there was more than one after her) wouldn’t have a tough time finding her. She was fairly well known and was not good at securing her personal information. But her public persona was not the one she feared for. It was the other Kathryn that she was fearful for. The one no one knew about, the skin she was more comfortable in.
On the radio, most people would recognize her voice as that of Dr. Kay Morrow, wizened guru to the lovelorn and grief-stricken. She dispensed sixty-second diagnoses with such tell-it-like-it-is style that few cared if she struck out here and there. She wasn’t a real psychologist, after all – not even a doctor. Kathryn told herself that the listeners knew this, they understood. It was a mutual and unspoken agreement between them.
And so it went for several years. Kathryn enjoyed sizeable ratings and a large fan base. She had even been looking into buying a new place when she renewed her contract and demanded more money. But then he called, and that’s when the fear – the paranoia – began.
The first time “Adam” called into the Dr. Morrow Show, Kathryn had already been set on edge by a series of events earlier in the day: the fridge went out as she was late for work, a fraudulent charge showed up on her credit card statement, and her mother phoned to say old Aunt Betty had finally passed. On top of all that, it had turned into a miserable, rainy night. She hadn’t been in the best of moods to take calls that evening, but like a trooper, she did.
“Hello, caller. You’re on the air with Dr. Kay Morrow.”
Only a wash of static greeted her ears.
“Good evening?”
Flicking the mute button on her control panel, Kathryn turned to her producer with uncharacteristic anger. “Tom, what the fuck?”
“S-sorry, Kathryn,” he stammered, taken aback by her gruff demeanor. “I don’t know what happened. He must have hung up.”
“Fine. Just get me the next caller.”
“Okay. Line 3”
Kathryn released the toggle on the mute, taking a moment to compose herself. It’s been a bad day, but there’s no need to take it out on everyone else, she told herself.
“Hello, caller. You’re on the air with Dr. Kay Morrow.”
Once again, static flared on the line. She threw her hands up to Tom.
“Well, listeners, I apologize. We seem to be experiencing some difficulties with our-”
“Hello?”
Kathryn stopped short. A dissonant voice pierced through the static that filled her ears.
“Caller, do I have you?”
“Yes, this is Adam” the voice responded from what seemed far away.
“Sorry for the problems with our phones tonight.” She looked at her monitor to see what Tom had typed in from pre-screening the call. Line three was a despondent mother of four who had been dumped by her husband for a stripper. There was no mention of a man named Adam in any of the logs. Just run with it, Kat, she told herself before giving Tom a dark, mirthless look.
“How can I help tonight, Adam?”
“Well,” the voice began. “I am calling because I think I can help you.”
His voice came across the line distant and unfocused. Kathryn braced herself for dealing with another nut. She had developed, over the years, ways both subtle and blunt for dealing with the occasional crazies that wasted her time.
“How’s that, Adam?”
“Well, I wanted to help you with your refrigerator.”
“What?” Kathryn became momentarily unnerved by this statement. She hadn’t mentioned to anyone that it had broken earlier that day. Not to Tom, not to the Super, and certainly not to any stranger named Adam.
“What did you say, Adam?”
“Well,” he continued. “If you just turn it around, and remove the small inset panel in the back…”
Adam droned on about regulator couplings and local stores that sell new ones at the best prices, but Kathryn only heard the steady pounding of her heart. Her eyes wide, brow furrowed, and face flush, she looked up to Tom in the booth beyond. She could see her own frightened face reflecting back at her from the glass partition. Tom simply stared at her quizzically, not understanding.
That simple fact that Tom could just stare glass eyed at her while Adam continued to spout off about coils and connectors, turned her fear to anger. For that alone she was thankful. Kay didn’t wear fear well.
Tom was a young, strong, carefree guy. Good at his job and easy to work with, but sweet in nature. There was no reason that she could think of why his radar would go up about this call. Now, ask any female in the office –hell, on the street- to listen to this call and Kay would bet that at least half of them would at least raise an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, Adam, but I believe that you’ve reached the wrong show. This is Dr. Kay not Car Talk.” With that Kay pressed the disconnect button.
“Sorry about that folks, apparently some calls still get by the screening process. Let’s go ahead and try another line. Cross your fingers folks and let’s hope Donna is on the line. Donna, are you there?”
And so another two hours had gone by.
“Tom! What the hell? Were you actually screening today?”
“I’m sorry, Kay. I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s okay,” Kay sighed and slid the headphones off her head. “Sorry I was short with you. But, um, can we talk about Adam? Was this the first time he’d called?”
“Man, Kay. I’m going to have to go back and listen to the screening tapes. We keep three months at a time.”
“Could you do that, Tom? Please put together a disc of all callers that sound like this Adam. Include today’s clip, okay?”
“Sure.”
Of course that had been about three months ago. Soon after that eventful show, Kay had begun a safety awareness segment. Thirty minutes, three times a week, dedicated to talking to callers about where “the line” was. How to identify when someone was over the line, even if that someone was yourself was hard work for everyone involved. Especially when you were the one toeing that line.
Sitting on her plush couch, slightly inebriated and exhausted, Kay was finally able to recognize a couple of other lines that she had crossed. One line being her once lovely and finally paid off couch. Fantastic. Now she could look at that damaged fabric and remember this wine fueled night of idiocy for months to come.
As stupid as the whole evening of paranoia had been, the moment that she regretted the most was that she had simply walked away from a man being plowed down in front of her. Fine she hadn’t spent years in school and there weren’t multiple letters behind her name on her business card, but she had always prided herself on her ability to behave in a manner befitting a resident of this city. Hell, the planet. She had every faith in the police, but she was a witness to a crime. Holy hell. The car hadn’t swerved. It hadn’t slowed down. It had slammed into that poor man so very brutally.
Kay shuddered as she closed her eyes and the horrid sound of cold, hard metal smacking into flesh echoed in her mind. As her eyes flashed open, she reached for the phone. She needed to call the cops. She needed to, no she had to, talk to the detective in charge of the investigation.
Did you call 911, this far after the fact?
Kay walked quickly towards the entrance to the police station. Two days had passed since she’d called 911 to ask what she needed to do to file an official account of what she saw. Now she was about 10 minutes late for her appointment with the detective working the case.
As she reached to open the station’s glass double doors, Kay caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her shoulder length blond hair was pulled up in a messy, loose up do. That, plus her square, black framed glasses resulted in a weird Paris-Hilton-as-a-librarian look. She gave herself a quick once over and ran her hand over her white blouse and red skirt to smooth out the wrinkle lines that had set in the car.
Kay entered the building with a deep breath and gave her name to the officer at the front desk. He invited her to have a seat and told her that Detective Odessa would be with her shortly. She exhaled as she lowered herself on the un-cushioned, dark brown, wooden chair.
Following the 911 call, Kay had been contacted by Detective Steven Odessa for a follow up interview. She learned that on the day of the accident, the dozen or so people who had pulled out cell phones had probably only taken pictures (or videos?) of the scene. Only 2 calls had been made to report the accident and fill out an eye witness report –as Kay was about to do.
A door at the far end of a long hallway swung open. Detective Odessa walked through and across the checkerboard tiled floor, down the hall to the front desk. The officer there said something to the detective and gestured over to Kay. Steven spun quickly on his heels, extended his hand and showed the slightest sign of a grin.
“Ms. Morrow, I’m Detective Steven Odessa.”
Kay stayed seated, looked up at his face. She couldn’t help but notice his bright eyes, and she met his hand with hers. “Nice to meet you – uh- Detective Odessa.”
Steven turned and walked back down the hallway towards the room he had just left. He hesitated when he realized Kay was still seated. “Ms. Morrow? If you could follow me to my office, I can file your account and have you out of here in a few moments.”
After he collected basic demographic data –this annoyed Kay, she’d already given all of this to someone over the phone –Steven asked Kay to review what she had seen. She gave her account of what she saw while Steve took what appeared to be sparse, efficient notes.
“Ms. Morrow” Steven started “There’s one odd thing here. You say the mustang was about 15 feet from you when it struck the victim?”
“Yes, that’s right”, Kay replied trying to block herself from visualizing the scene yet again.
“And the mustang was headed towards Raven Blvd, and was speeding up as it passed.”
Somewhat annoyed, Kay simply nodded.
“So if all that matches up, then why is it that you report the car was red, when the other two witnesses say it was grey? In fact, we have a cell phone image which is a little fuzzy, but shows the car is clearly a dark color. ”
Kay was stumped. There was not one speck of doubt in her mind that the car was red. But as she looked at the photo, the color was the least of her concerns. What she saw in that photo caused her to feel a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. Before she realized it, she heard herself say aloud, “What the hell?”
Odessa cocked an eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Ms. Morrow?”
She closed her eyes, and the grainy cell phone image disappeared. When she opened them again, the picture was back in the detective’s hands.
“Detective,” she said, with what appeared to be a genuine smile. “You know me as Kathryn Morrow, but maybe the name ‘Dr. Kay Morrow’ rings a bell.”
The eyebrow cocked again. “That’s you?”
“That’s me. And I think I owe you an apology. The red Mustang I remembered, well… This is embarrassing for me to admit.”
“Go on.”
She did. “Documented psychological studies have proven time and time again that eye-witnesses are sometimes the worst witnesses, if you know what I mean. In the frenzy of a traumatic event, the mind occasionally makes up its own facts...”
Odessa nodded. “I’ve seen that happen.”
“Right,” she agreed, perhaps too quickly. “The witness to a crime thinks the perpetrator was black, when he wasn’t. They remember a different hair color… eye color.” Again, Kathryn flashed a convincing smile and added, “Or car color. And I thought I was smarter than my subconscious. I should have known better.”
“So you’re saying your subconscious tricked you into thinking the car was red, when it was gray.”
“Exactly. And as a fairly well-known psychologist…”
“On the radio, at least.”
“Yes,” she said unhappily at his dismissive comment. “‘On the radio, at least…’”
Odessa stole another glance at the photo in his hands, then looked away and set it aside with a soft sigh.
“Is there anything else, detective?”
“No.” Odessa slid the image back into his file folder and finally made eye contact again. When he spoke, his voice was distant… and eerily familiar. “Thank you for your time, Ms. – I mean Doctor – Morrow.’
She was back in her car before she allowed herself to think about Detective Odessa’s voice. She was certain she had heard it before.
She was also still certain that car had been red.
She wasn’t due back to the studio until that evening, but she drove straight from them police station to the boxy white-brick building just outside the city limits, breaking the law in the process to call Tom from her cell phone. He agreed to meet her there; in fact, he made it to the studio a half-minute before her car pulled into the lot.
“What’s up?” he asked, when she walked into the lobby, but she kept walking, making a beeline for Tom’s production booth. He scrambled to keep pace until he finally caught up with her when she reached the locked production room door and again had a chance to breathlessly ask, “What’s up?”
She wasn’t sure what she was feeling – a strange combination of panic and rationality; fear and defiance – but she said quite calmly, “The show tapes. I want to hear the show tapes.”
A tinge of anger crept into his voice. “That’s what this is all about?”
She turned and gave him a smile, but it wasn’t the smile she had offered Detective Odessa. It was the smile of a woman who was going to get what she wanted, and no one would stand in her way. She didn’t care how nice a guy Tom was; now, she wasn’t Kathryn Morrow. She was Dr. Kay Morrow, and Dr. Kay Morrow knew how to take control.
“Tom, you are going to do what I say.”
He felt the steel in her voice on his spine and took his keys out his pocket. As he unlocked the door, he dared to ask, “Are we looking for anything in particular?”
“Yes. I want to hear Adam’s voice.”
Kathryn was such a fool. The voice on the tape, Adam's voice, wasn't Odessa. Or, more accurately, the voice could be anyone. It was such a bland, generic voice. It's only character came from its broken rhythm and breathy tone. The call was still creepy to her, no doubt, but hearing it again, it was plain that the caller's intention was to scare her, and every syllable he uttered made that plain.
She felt humiliated by the fact that she'd been taken in by such an obvious effort to unnerve her. On any other day, she thought, she'd have just shrugged off that call. But on the day of the hit and run, it got inside her, and now she was haunted by that cold, disembodied voice.
And, of course, Tom was annoyed with her now. When she had her conviction that something was terribly wrong behind her she didn't care what he thought. Now, it was one more embarrassment on her list to fret over. She wouldn't be sending any more late night calls his way in the foreseeable future, that's for sure.
And yet, there was one creepy thing she discovered tonight. There were no screening tapes. Tom had spent hours looking through the old tapes, but the only recording they had of Adam came from that one appearance on the show. Somehow, when he called, he'd skipped over the screening process entirely.
"How is that even possible?" she demanded when Tom couldn't produce anything.
"I don't know." Tom shrugged, a boyish look of dismay on his face. "It's not possible, I guess. But it's true."
"Are you fucking with me?"
She knew he wasn't, but could think of nothing else to say.
"The only thing I can think is that someone erased them, but there's no one with access that would take the time. And then why not erase the show tape too? It's just not reasonable."
She roamed her apartment that night like a caged animal, jumping from one useless task to another. She searched YouTube hoping to find a video of the hit and run, but came up empty. She tried to watch television, annoyed by its noise until she turned it off. She tried in vain to find someone to call to vent her frustrations to, laying down her cell again and again, in impotent defeat.
"This isn't healthy," she muttered under her breath.
Finally, she decided to expel her frustrations through activity. She walked into the kitchen and began cleaning. She had just run dishwater when she was interrupted by a faint rhythm pumping softly from the next room. Her cell.
She walked into the living room, spooked for some reason. Her cell lay on the arm of her couch, its screen lit, vibrating and pumping out a tinny version of "Where It's At." She was annoyed that her hand trembled as she reached for it.
She caught herself and laughed. The ring tone was such a ridiculous thing to be listening to while afraid. She really needed to get a grip on herself.
"Hello?"
The voice that responded made her go cold with fear.
"Hi there, Kat. Is your refrigerator running?" It was that same breathy cadence, unmistakable. Adam spoke in a demented sing-song to her. "Better run and catch it. Better run, better run."
Her blood ran cold. How did he know her cell phone number? It certainly wasn’t listed. More importantly, how did he know her? Who was he? Had he been someone from her past?
Her mind raced as her trembling hand held the cell phone close to her ear, the strange Adam still on the line. Something inside her told her not to hang up. She finally took a deep breath and decided to speak.
“Hello? Are you still there? Adam…?”
“Yes,” replied the voice on the other line. “You really should fix that refrigerator.” He let out a very light chuckle.
“You’re right.” She wanted to change the subject, to use her power as a therapist to figure out who he was and what he wanted. She tried her best to keep calm and speak casually. “So, how have you been? What have you been up to?”
“Now, you know that isn’t important, Kat.” His voice was steady and focused. He knew how to play her game, whatever game that happened to be.
“Oh? But I really want to know.”
“Well, I know what you did. Do you want to focus on that instead?”
Now she wanted to play his game. Or at least pretend to do so. Anything to find out who this guy was.
“Sure, let’s focus on my day,” she said rather confidently. “What did I do today?”
“You spent some time trying to find some tapes, didn’t you?”
She froze.
“I guess you can’t get enough of hearing my voice, huh?” He spoke so clearly, with very little emotion. He could be a therapist himself. Maybe he was. Is that how she knew him? Was he a colleague? If so, why was her pestering her? And how did he know she and Tom searched for those tapes earlier?
“Of course,” she said with an air of sarcasm. “I simply can’t live without listening to your voice.” She was surprised how calm she was. Perhaps her adrenaline had kicked in so much that her nerves had somehow been steadied.
“If you wanted to hear my voice, all you had to do was ask.”
“Oh,” she began. “But how could I contact you? You called me, remember?”
“I know, my friend. But you can just as easily call me. You have my number, remember?”
She just realized she hadn’t looked at the caller I.D. when she had first answered the phone. She quickly checked. “Unavailable.” Damn! She should have known. Maybe it was someone she knew. Maybe not. But he claimed she had his number.
“I don’t think I have your number handy.” She took another deep breath. “Could you remind me?”
“Oh, I think you have it. It’s probably not in your cell phone contact list. But check your little black book. It should be there.”
What? Little black book? She hadn’t used an actual phone book in years. Was this Adam someone from years ago? That name—Adam. Adam, Adam, Adam. It didn’t ring a bell. But she had to know him somehow. After all, if he knew so much about her and was able to find out what she was doing and what was going on in her life, their paths must have crossed at least once.
Or was he just some psycho stalker who was watching her every move?
Kathryn quietly cleared her throat. "Adam," she said coolly, trying to prevent her voice from betraying her nervousness. "I really must apologize, but I'm having trouble placing you."
"I'm hurt," Adam replied, mockingly. "I always thought everyone remembered their first."
Adam's words took Kathryn by surprise. What did he mean by her "first?" Her first, what? Her mind raced as she thought back to the men who had been important in her life.
Whoever this Adam was, Kathryn was sure he wasn't the first guy with whom she had ever had sex. That had been Quinn McCafferty, the summer she turned 15. Quinn was now married with three children, and lived in Connecticut. Besides, he and Kathryn stayed in regular contact after reconnecting on Facebook, so she'd certainly recognize his voice.
Adam also couldn't possibly be her first love -- Andy Miller.
Kathryn still choked up every time she thought of Andy, and even after all of these years, she couldn't help feeling responsible for his death.
Kathryn and Andy began dating in their sophomore year of high school and had been practically inseparable. Their friends envied their relationship, and everyone was certain they'd marry after high school and live "happily ever after."
However, in the months leading up to graduation, they were frequently arguing and the relationship was beginning to crumble.
Kathryn had been accepted to UCLA - nearly two thousand miles from their hometown in Nebraska - and she was excited to move to California. However, Andy was content to stay in Greenwood, and had planned to take over his father's appliance store after high school.
Andy had also looked forward to marrying Kathryn and raising a family together, but Kathryn wanted something different and had hoped Andy would move to Los Angeles with her. She wanted to meet new people and broaden her horizons. She wasn't ready to be married and have children at that age, and she certainly didn't want to be stuck in Greenwood for the rest of her life.
Kathryn had begun to feel that if Andy couldn't understand that, then perhaps they weren't meant for each other after all.
Only a few weeks after graduation, they had their worst fight ever. Kathryn, frustrated by what she felt was Andy's lack of ambition, had lashed out at him with pure vitriol.
"You'll never amount to anything if you stay here," she had said, scornfully. "You'll live a dull, wasted existence like your father and everyone else in this rotten town!"
Andy's face had reddened with anger and he had parted his lips, as if to speak, but stopped himself. Instead, he stormed out of Kathryn's parents' house and jumped into his car.
"Let him sulk," Kathryn remembered thinking. "Maybe he'll finally grow some fucking balls."
Hours later, Kathryn's mother had awakened her from a fitful sleep.
"Kathy, sweetheart," her mother had said, with tears filling her eyes. "There's been an accident. Andy's gone."
Andy's body had been burned beyond recognition, so Kathryn wasn't allowed to see him, but she still remembered watching as his demolished car was towed from the crash scene the next morning.
His beautiful, red Mustang, crumpled like a discarded piece of paper.
That last memory snapped her back to the present, as the realization sent a shiver down her spine.
"Oh my God," she thought. "Andy drove a red Mustang, exactly like the one I saw on the morning of the accident!"
“Kay, dear, I can hear the wheels turning. Do you remember me now?” Adam’s voice brought her back to reality.
Almost choking on her fear and sadness, Kay tried to keep her voice level. “The only first that you could possibly be to me is my first stalker. If you won’t leave me alone, be man enough to show your face.”
“I’m a man without a face, sweetheart.” And, with that, Adam hung up.
Kay stared at the phone in her hand for a long time. Burn victims can have damaged vocal cords, leading to soft, raspy voices. If you’re burned bad enough, she thought, you’re face might be just a map of scars and grafts.
She knew it was crazy; but she couldn’t stop the thoughts in her head. What if Andy lived? She had gone to the funeral, been at his parents house as well-meaning friends and family offered their condolences and food. She had helped his mother tearfully go through his room and put away his belongings.
Determined to put her irrational fear to rest, she booted up her laptop. She found the obituary, the newspaper articles, the horrific photos of the accident. His Mustang was so twisted and burned that it was barely recognizable. She relived that night and the agonizing months that followed. It had taken her three months to face the fact that she needed therapy. Three long months of hiding from the world, blanketing herself in grief and guilt.
After six months, she had convinced her therapist that she was past the “guilt stage”. She gave convincing speeches on how she had not been the one behind the wheel. On how she could not hold herself responsible for his reckless actions. She was so convincing that she almost convinced herself.
“Maybe that’s why I chose a career in therapy.” She almost laughed at the thought. What she did was a far cry from the therapy that she endured all those years ago.
After hours of scouring the net, revisiting her pain, and a few more bottles of wine; she fell into a fitful sleep on her mangled couch. Her dreams were vivid and troublesome. She saw Andy’s accident as if she had been standing on the side of the road. She tried to run and save him; but she couldn’t move. She tried to scream for help; but no sound came out. The ambulance never came. She stood helplessly as the car burned. When the flames finally subsided and the smoke was almost cleared; a figure came walking out of the wreckage. Black and mangled as the car.
Her own scream awoke her. Gasping for air, she tried to calm herself. The beating on the door startled her so much; she almost screamed again. She cautiously got up from the couch and silently made her way to the door. The pounding came again.
“Are you okay?” Her neighbor’s nervous voice calmed her.
“Yes, I’m sorry for the noise. I just had a really bad nightmare.” She answered, not opening the door.
“Are you sure? Would you like me to come in and sit with you? Have some tea?”
“No, really, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern and sorry to have bothered you.” She answered, amazed at the steadiness of her voice. She certainly didn’t feel steady. She was clammy and nauseous.
* * *
After a few Tylenol PM, she finally managed to fall asleep, but her dreams wouldn’t let her sleep peacefully because guilt can be powerful, especially unresolved, unexamined guilt. Could Adam be Andy? Could her last words to him have cursed his final hours? Is it possible he could have survived that horrific accident? Kathryn had no answers to the many questions which flooded her mind, but she knew she had to find a way beyond this anxiety or it would do irreparable damage to her job, her friends, and her life.
The next morning, she decided she needed answers, so she told Tom she would be taking the next two days to take care of some family business, and she drove to Greenwood to see Andy’s mother.
As her car rolled to a stop in front of the house, she didn’t quite know what she was going to say to the woman who thought of her like a daughter while she was dating Andy. The house was just as she remembered: a white split-level ranch with burgundy trim, the close-cropped lawn which Andy’s father kept meticulously green through assorted chemicals and religious watering, and the wildflowers which grew along the driveway, botanical fringe to offset the red brick driveway. Walking toward the door, Kathryn’s heart pounded as if it would burst through her chest, but she had to do this. She not only needed answers, but she also needed closure. Tentatively, she knocked on the burgundy door, recalling all those times when she and Andy came by to see his parents for dinner every few weeks. A face peered through the sidelight for a moment, and then Kathryn heard the jingling of the lock. As the door opened, a face she had not seen for a long time looked back at her, and she felt more at ease.
“Kathryn, is that really you?” asked Andy’s mother, holding the door as if it were the only thing keeping her standing.
“Yes, Gladys, it’s me,” she smiled.
“Well, don’t just stand there, honey. Come in. It’s so good to see you.”
The burgundy door closed behind her, and for the first time in a very long time, Kathryn felt calm. Gladys gestured for her to go into the kitchen and sit at the table while she put out some iced tea.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Kathryn,” Gladys began. “I really hope you don’t still feel guilty about Andy’s death. You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”
Sipping some tea, Kathryn paused to look at Gladys’ face. The woman hadn’t really aged all that much since the last time she saw her. The last she saw her was at Andy’s funeral.
“Yes,” Kathryn said, softly. “I know. I still struggle with it a little, but I know deep down I had nothing to do with…” She couldn’t say it.
“With Andy’s death,” Gladys said, finishing the sentence. “It’s okay to say it.” The gentle woman placed her hand over Kathryn’s on the table. “So, what brings you to Greenwood? I thought you told Andy you didn’t want to come back. Something about starting a career…”
Kathryn, who always had something to say, couldn’t find the words to express herself. Taking another sip of tea, she padded her lips with the paper napkin Gladys had put next to the glass. This trip couldn’t be for nothing, she told herself, so she explained to her former boyfriend’s mother the entire story, from the accident she had witnessed to the unnerving phone calls from ‘Adam’.
“Hm,” Gladys said at the name.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Gladys replied, trying to be casual.
“Gladys, you can’t play poker, and you can’t hide things from me,” Kathryn said, smiling. “Remember those times when you used to sneak cigarettes, and all I had to do was look at you a certain way, and you’d spill that you’d been down the street at the park smoking? What is it?”
“Before Andy met you, we lived in Tampa, FL. In fact, my family is originally from Florida. Harry—you remember Harry—well, he died a few months ago.”
“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me? You know I would have come out to help.”
“I know, that’s why I didn’t call you. I needed time to myself after the man I had been married to for 35 years just up and died. Anyway, Harry and I had tried to have children when we first got married, but he… he had a low sperm count,” she said, rushing that part. “Anyway, we tried and tried to have children, and we had some false alarms—those damn pregnancy tests—but we eventually got pregnant, and we had Andy. We really didn’t think that it would happen again, since Harry had that problem, you know. Well, when Andy was just three, I got pregnant again. We had another son.”
“I didn’t know Andy had a brother? He never mentioned it.”
“He wouldn’t have. He was always jealous of Andy, no matter what we tried to do to treat them equally. Andy tried to be the best brother he could, but it just wasn’t enough. Eventually, when both the boys were in their teens, we moved here to Greenwood. I thought the change would help, and it did for a little while.”
Kathryn felt a twinge in her chest.
“Gladys,” she began, “what was Andy’s brother’s name?”
“Michael…”
Kathryn instantly felt the twinge go away.
“…but, he preferred to go by his middle name, Adam.”
Taking a sip of iced tea, Kathryn felt the uncomfortable feeling return. Slowly, her heart started to beat more noticeably.
“What ever happened to Michael…er…Adam?”
Andy’s mother’s face fell a little, and she nervously wiped the condensation off her glass, folding the napkin afterward.
“He and Andy couldn’t get along, and Harry and I couldn’t figure out why. Whatever Andy got, Michael wanted. If Andy got new clothes, Michael took them and tried to wear them, even though they didn’t fit him. When Andy dated someone, Michael always hung around, making the poor girl uncomfortable, so she’d eventually break up with Andy. Eventually, Harry and I decided to send Michael to his aunt, my sister, in Oakstead, about fifty miles from here. He didn’t want to leave. I suppose, even with the jealousy, he loved his brother very much, but Andy was fed up with him.”
“What happened? I mean, neither you nor Harry, or even Andy, ever mentioned him. In fact, I don’t ever remember seeing any pictures of him.”
Kathryn’s initial curiosity made her now quite uncomfortable.
Gladys pursed her lips a little, trying to put something into words. She spoke softly, carefully, almost as if she were trying to be respectful of the dead.
“Michael didn’t do very well with my sister. In fact… he tried to hurt her. She had him committed to a psychiatric facility in Oakstead, but she still insisted on visiting him every week. Dear Angela… she always thought she could save people, no matter how lost they were.”
“Is she okay?”
“Oh, yes. She moved to New York after a few months when she realized Michael wanted nothing to do with her. She would just sit with him for hours, supervised, of course. He said nothing. She would try to tell him things about the people she saw, the places she went. When she moved, we decided it was best to leave Michael there. I tried to speak to him once, but he told me he wanted nothing to do with us ever again, and I should never contact him. It hurt me so much, but I knew it was for the best. Harry and I promised not to talk about him. We threw away everything we had of his, including all his pictures, even the baby pictures. That almost killed me inside. He was my baby, after all.”
Kathryn wanted to know if Michael was still in the Oakstead facility, but she wouldn’t ask Gladys. Something told her she didn’t want to go down that path, but another something told her that that path was also leading right to her. She began to think that maybe Michael had been released.
“Gladys, is it likely that Michael will ever be released from Oakstead?”
“I suppose it’s possible. Angela told me that, if Michael had shown improvement in his violent tendencies over a certain period of time, he might be able to get some unsupervised time away from the facility. I would think that Oakstead would call us before they let him do that, though. Wouldn’t you think?”
“Do you happen to have the number, by any chance?”
“I do. It’s next to the phone. Why?”
Without answering Gladys, Kathryn moved to the phone, found the number on a business card, and dialed.
“Oakstead Psychiatric Hospital. May I help you?”
Kathryn steadied her voice. “Yes, I was wondering if you could tell me if a patient is still in residence?”
“I’m sorry. We can only give that information to members of a patient’s family, or a patient’s doctor.”
“Oh, well, I am Dr. Kay Morrow.”
“The doctor from the radio show?”
“Yes, that would be me. I’m wondering about a patient of mine who became a resident of your facility. I wanted to visit to see how he was doing.”
“That request takes 24 hours to process, but may I ask which patient you would like to see?”
“Michael Preston.”
“Hmm. We don’t have a Michael Preston in residence.”
“Oh. He might be going by Adam. Adam Preston.”
“Yes, we had an Adam Preston.”
“Had?”
“He was released a few months ago, after the Review Board examined his progress.”
A chill brushed the back of Kathryn’s neck.
“Do you know where he would have gone? I would really like to follow up with him.”
The receptionist told Kathryn that Michael’s former doctor would have that information, since he would have arranged outpatient therapy for Michael. She would patch Kathryn through to him, assuming he was in his office.
Dr. Albert, once he heard who was on the phone, immediately began telling Kathryn how much of a fan he was of her radio show. Flattered, she tried to redirect him to the whereabouts of Michael, or rather, Adam.
“The last known address I have for him is Los Angeles. That was about two months ago, I believe.”
The blood drained from Kathryn’s face, and she mechanically hung up the phone without saying goodbye to Dr. Albert.
“What is it, dear?” Gladys asked.
Kathryn sat down again and finished her iced tea, staring blankly into the kitchen.
“Los Angeles,” she uttered, incredulously. “He’s in L.A.”
The words had barely left her lips when her cell phone rang, making both women jump. As she looked down at the phone, she saw, “Unavailable.”
“Damn. It’s him.”
“Who, dear?”
“Adam.”
Note to self, she thought, change the damn ring tone. She suddenly had a thought, and a smile slowly crept across her face. The little black book Adam mentioned before.
“Hello, Adam.”
“Well, you seem almost glad to hear from me, Kat. Enjoying your chat with Mom?”
She realized that he would have followed her, so she wasn’t thrown by his question.
“As a matter of fact, I am… Michael.”
Silence.
“What’s wrong, Michael? Did I say something to upset you?”
“Not at all. How is dear old Mom doing?”
She could hear it in his voice. He was thrown off his game. Now, he would be her plaything for a while.
“Just fine. She was telling me all about you, and your penchant for hurting others. I actually pity you.”
Her confidence angered him.
“Shut up. It’s all lies!”
“What, Michael? What lies?” Her composure grew with each passing moment.
“Dammit…my name is Adam!”
“Okay, Michael, whatever you say.”
His heavy breathing made her smile. She knew she was getting to him. Putting her hand over her cellphone, she—very calmly—told Gladys to call the police. Unsure of what to do exactly, Gladys moved toward the phone, but turned, as if to ask why.
“Because this is the endgame. Michael, Adam, or whoever he is… he’s not going to hurt me, or anyone else, anymore. Now, please, Gladys, call the police.”
In her heart, she wanted to scream to her son and tell him what Kathryn wanted to do, but then she thought of Andy, and her sister, and she dialed 911.
“You still there, Kat?” His voice had regained its composure.
“Yes, I’m still here. So, tell me, how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill your brother, Andy.”
Silence.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I think I know. Cut his break lines? Tamper with his transmission? You see, I’ve had a revelation, Michael… sorry, Adam. The accident I witnessed made me think about Andy’s death, but it doesn’t matter what color the car was that I saw. It was Andy’s red Mustang that matters now. You wanted his car, didn’t you?”
“He didn’t deserve any of it.”
“Deserve what?”
“I’m not going to play your game.”
“Why not? I’ve been playing yours. What else did you want of his?” And then, it hit her. “You wanted me. You knew he was dating me. Your mother probably told your aunt Angela, who told you, since she wanted to keep you in the loop of the family.”
“He didn’t deserve anything!”
She continued as if he weren’t saying anything. “You killed him, thinking you could have me. You probably came to Greenwood, arranged his death, but decided to go back to Angela’s to lie low afterward.”
She enjoyed when he went silent. Instinctually, she carefully looked out the window and saw a black Chevy about a block away, with a man sitting in the driver’s seat. She couldn’t make out his face, but he seemed to be on a phone.
“When you were released from Oakstead, you went to L.A. to find me. You knew with Andy out of the way, you’d have no obstacle to get me.”
Damn, she was good.
“You probably saw a billboard with my face on it, tuned into the radio show, and then called that night. Am I even close? Don’t bother to answer.”
Gladys sat mesmerized by the one-sided conversation, wondering if her son was saying anything at all. She prayed to G-d that whatever was going to happen would happen quickly, and without more grief. In the distance, she heard sirens, so she knew it wouldn’t be long.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I did what I had to do, Adam.”
“You know you won’t win.”
“I already have.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. And now, I’ll have to deal with my mother and you. Look at what you’re making me do.”
“Everything we do is a choice, Adam. Choices have consequences, so choose wisely.”
“Very witty, Kat. Is that from psychology textbook? I’m smarter than that.”
“Oh, I know, Adam. I’m counting on it. If you want me, you know where I am. Now’s your chance.”
Glancing through the curtain, she could see Adam. He got out of the car and moved slowly toward the house. Sirens blared even more loudly, and the car’s lights could be seen sparking about two blocks away. Even with the police car advancing, Adam still moved slowly. He seemed unarmed, but she had no idea what he would do. With a sudden thought, she ran over to the front door and latched it.
“Gladys, go upstairs. Now.”
Without hesitation, the older woman did as she was told, more out of fear than anything else.
By the time that Adam got to the kitchen window, he was shouting for Kathryn.
“What’s wrong, Kat? Afraid to let me in? Afraid I’m too much man for you? I’d be so much better for you than Andy. He was weak, and he never knew how to please a woman.”
He pounded on the glass, shaking the panes. With every fistfall, Kathryn thought the window would shatter. It seemed as if he were just trying to get her attention. A voice from outside, not Adam’s could be heard over his shouting.
“Put your hands over your head and kneel on the ground. Now!”
Adam continued to taunt Kathryn, pounding more on the glass.
“Get on the ground! Now!” the policeman shouted, his gun pointed right at the back of Adam’s head.
Adam complied, kneeling before the window, his hands laced behind his head. And he was laughing.
“You think you’ve won, Kat. You think you’ve won. Andy couldn’t have you. And if I can’t, no one can!”
With that, he reached around, lunging for the policeman’s handgun. A shot rang out, shattering the window, and Adam was pinned to the ground by two other policemen. All Adam could do was laugh. When they took him away, handcuffed, he laughed, singing,
“Pulling out jives and jamboree handouts
Two turntables and a microphone
Bottles and cans just clap your hands just clap your hands,
Where it’s at…”
Gladys came down the stairs slowly and stood by the window, watching the policemen take her little baby away. She stood next to Kathryn, who was crying, but these tears were of closure. She wasn’t thinking about Adam. She was thinking about Andy. After all this time, she was finally at peace.
It was all over in seconds, but those frightening moments would be seared into Kathryn’s brain. Stepping out of Starbucks, she saw a man running across the street at the same time a red mustang was running a red light. The front of the mustang contacted the man’s knees and he flipped over and landed head first onto the windshield with a bone chilling thud. The car accelerated and the man rolled off onto the street as the car disappeared down the street. About a dozen people whipped out cell phones and all started dialing 911. Kathryn just stood there, frozen, unable or unwilling to help. All she could think about was the fact that she didn’t hear the squeal of brakes, like you would in a movie. Funny how something like that sticks in your mind.
The sirens snapped her out of her trance. She calmly sipped her latte and finished her walk to work.
The rest of the day was a blur of memos, meetings and late lunches as her mind kept coming back to that accident. Did the man survive? Is he permanently damaged? Why could she not run to him and offer help? What if it had been her? She mentally replayed the accident over and over, willing herself to see a clue. She came up with nothing new.
By the time she got home, it became a full blown obsession. She opened a bottle of wine and began to surf the ‘net, hoping for some news. It wasn’t like she had plans anyway. It had been months since her last real date and years since anything resembling a relationship. Was that what bothered her? Would she die before she landed a man? Was she that shallow?
By her second bottle of wine, Kathryn had convinced herself that the man in question was someone she knew, (possibly Gary) and that she had witnessed a murder. With Gary out of the way, she was sure she was next. She ran around her house, making sure every door was locked and every window bolted. She willed herself to stay awake, half-drunk, all night. She sat in the middle of the living room with a kitchen knife as her only defense. Every bump, every click, every dog howl was an intruder alert. At one point, a bark was so near; Kathryn screamed and stabbed a sofa cushion repeatedly. She began sobbing hysterically, certain that she was going to die and that it would be today.
The murderers (she was now sure there was more than one after her) wouldn’t have a tough time finding her. She was fairly well known and was not good at securing her personal information. But her public persona was not the one she feared for. It was the other Kathryn that she was fearful for. The one no one knew about, the skin she was more comfortable in.
On the radio, most people would recognize her voice as that of Dr. Kay Morrow, wizened guru to the lovelorn and grief-stricken. She dispensed sixty-second diagnoses with such tell-it-like-it-is style that few cared if she struck out here and there. She wasn’t a real psychologist, after all – not even a doctor. Kathryn told herself that the listeners knew this, they understood. It was a mutual and unspoken agreement between them.
And so it went for several years. Kathryn enjoyed sizeable ratings and a large fan base. She had even been looking into buying a new place when she renewed her contract and demanded more money. But then he called, and that’s when the fear – the paranoia – began.
The first time “Adam” called into the Dr. Morrow Show, Kathryn had already been set on edge by a series of events earlier in the day: the fridge went out as she was late for work, a fraudulent charge showed up on her credit card statement, and her mother phoned to say old Aunt Betty had finally passed. On top of all that, it had turned into a miserable, rainy night. She hadn’t been in the best of moods to take calls that evening, but like a trooper, she did.
“Hello, caller. You’re on the air with Dr. Kay Morrow.”
Only a wash of static greeted her ears.
“Good evening?”
Flicking the mute button on her control panel, Kathryn turned to her producer with uncharacteristic anger. “Tom, what the fuck?”
“S-sorry, Kathryn,” he stammered, taken aback by her gruff demeanor. “I don’t know what happened. He must have hung up.”
“Fine. Just get me the next caller.”
“Okay. Line 3”
Kathryn released the toggle on the mute, taking a moment to compose herself. It’s been a bad day, but there’s no need to take it out on everyone else, she told herself.
“Hello, caller. You’re on the air with Dr. Kay Morrow.”
Once again, static flared on the line. She threw her hands up to Tom.
“Well, listeners, I apologize. We seem to be experiencing some difficulties with our-”
“Hello?”
Kathryn stopped short. A dissonant voice pierced through the static that filled her ears.
“Caller, do I have you?”
“Yes, this is Adam” the voice responded from what seemed far away.
“Sorry for the problems with our phones tonight.” She looked at her monitor to see what Tom had typed in from pre-screening the call. Line three was a despondent mother of four who had been dumped by her husband for a stripper. There was no mention of a man named Adam in any of the logs. Just run with it, Kat, she told herself before giving Tom a dark, mirthless look.
“How can I help tonight, Adam?”
“Well,” the voice began. “I am calling because I think I can help you.”
His voice came across the line distant and unfocused. Kathryn braced herself for dealing with another nut. She had developed, over the years, ways both subtle and blunt for dealing with the occasional crazies that wasted her time.
“How’s that, Adam?”
“Well, I wanted to help you with your refrigerator.”
“What?” Kathryn became momentarily unnerved by this statement. She hadn’t mentioned to anyone that it had broken earlier that day. Not to Tom, not to the Super, and certainly not to any stranger named Adam.
“What did you say, Adam?”
“Well,” he continued. “If you just turn it around, and remove the small inset panel in the back…”
Adam droned on about regulator couplings and local stores that sell new ones at the best prices, but Kathryn only heard the steady pounding of her heart. Her eyes wide, brow furrowed, and face flush, she looked up to Tom in the booth beyond. She could see her own frightened face reflecting back at her from the glass partition. Tom simply stared at her quizzically, not understanding.
That simple fact that Tom could just stare glass eyed at her while Adam continued to spout off about coils and connectors, turned her fear to anger. For that alone she was thankful. Kay didn’t wear fear well.
Tom was a young, strong, carefree guy. Good at his job and easy to work with, but sweet in nature. There was no reason that she could think of why his radar would go up about this call. Now, ask any female in the office –hell, on the street- to listen to this call and Kay would bet that at least half of them would at least raise an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, Adam, but I believe that you’ve reached the wrong show. This is Dr. Kay not Car Talk.” With that Kay pressed the disconnect button.
“Sorry about that folks, apparently some calls still get by the screening process. Let’s go ahead and try another line. Cross your fingers folks and let’s hope Donna is on the line. Donna, are you there?”
And so another two hours had gone by.
“Tom! What the hell? Were you actually screening today?”
“I’m sorry, Kay. I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s okay,” Kay sighed and slid the headphones off her head. “Sorry I was short with you. But, um, can we talk about Adam? Was this the first time he’d called?”
“Man, Kay. I’m going to have to go back and listen to the screening tapes. We keep three months at a time.”
“Could you do that, Tom? Please put together a disc of all callers that sound like this Adam. Include today’s clip, okay?”
“Sure.”
Of course that had been about three months ago. Soon after that eventful show, Kay had begun a safety awareness segment. Thirty minutes, three times a week, dedicated to talking to callers about where “the line” was. How to identify when someone was over the line, even if that someone was yourself was hard work for everyone involved. Especially when you were the one toeing that line.
Sitting on her plush couch, slightly inebriated and exhausted, Kay was finally able to recognize a couple of other lines that she had crossed. One line being her once lovely and finally paid off couch. Fantastic. Now she could look at that damaged fabric and remember this wine fueled night of idiocy for months to come.
As stupid as the whole evening of paranoia had been, the moment that she regretted the most was that she had simply walked away from a man being plowed down in front of her. Fine she hadn’t spent years in school and there weren’t multiple letters behind her name on her business card, but she had always prided herself on her ability to behave in a manner befitting a resident of this city. Hell, the planet. She had every faith in the police, but she was a witness to a crime. Holy hell. The car hadn’t swerved. It hadn’t slowed down. It had slammed into that poor man so very brutally.
Kay shuddered as she closed her eyes and the horrid sound of cold, hard metal smacking into flesh echoed in her mind. As her eyes flashed open, she reached for the phone. She needed to call the cops. She needed to, no she had to, talk to the detective in charge of the investigation.
Did you call 911, this far after the fact?
Kay walked quickly towards the entrance to the police station. Two days had passed since she’d called 911 to ask what she needed to do to file an official account of what she saw. Now she was about 10 minutes late for her appointment with the detective working the case.
As she reached to open the station’s glass double doors, Kay caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her shoulder length blond hair was pulled up in a messy, loose up do. That, plus her square, black framed glasses resulted in a weird Paris-Hilton-as-a-librarian look. She gave herself a quick once over and ran her hand over her white blouse and red skirt to smooth out the wrinkle lines that had set in the car.
Kay entered the building with a deep breath and gave her name to the officer at the front desk. He invited her to have a seat and told her that Detective Odessa would be with her shortly. She exhaled as she lowered herself on the un-cushioned, dark brown, wooden chair.
Following the 911 call, Kay had been contacted by Detective Steven Odessa for a follow up interview. She learned that on the day of the accident, the dozen or so people who had pulled out cell phones had probably only taken pictures (or videos?) of the scene. Only 2 calls had been made to report the accident and fill out an eye witness report –as Kay was about to do.
A door at the far end of a long hallway swung open. Detective Odessa walked through and across the checkerboard tiled floor, down the hall to the front desk. The officer there said something to the detective and gestured over to Kay. Steven spun quickly on his heels, extended his hand and showed the slightest sign of a grin.
“Ms. Morrow, I’m Detective Steven Odessa.”
Kay stayed seated, looked up at his face. She couldn’t help but notice his bright eyes, and she met his hand with hers. “Nice to meet you – uh- Detective Odessa.”
Steven turned and walked back down the hallway towards the room he had just left. He hesitated when he realized Kay was still seated. “Ms. Morrow? If you could follow me to my office, I can file your account and have you out of here in a few moments.”
After he collected basic demographic data –this annoyed Kay, she’d already given all of this to someone over the phone –Steven asked Kay to review what she had seen. She gave her account of what she saw while Steve took what appeared to be sparse, efficient notes.
“Ms. Morrow” Steven started “There’s one odd thing here. You say the mustang was about 15 feet from you when it struck the victim?”
“Yes, that’s right”, Kay replied trying to block herself from visualizing the scene yet again.
“And the mustang was headed towards Raven Blvd, and was speeding up as it passed.”
Somewhat annoyed, Kay simply nodded.
“So if all that matches up, then why is it that you report the car was red, when the other two witnesses say it was grey? In fact, we have a cell phone image which is a little fuzzy, but shows the car is clearly a dark color. ”
Kay was stumped. There was not one speck of doubt in her mind that the car was red. But as she looked at the photo, the color was the least of her concerns. What she saw in that photo caused her to feel a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. Before she realized it, she heard herself say aloud, “What the hell?”
Odessa cocked an eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Ms. Morrow?”
She closed her eyes, and the grainy cell phone image disappeared. When she opened them again, the picture was back in the detective’s hands.
“Detective,” she said, with what appeared to be a genuine smile. “You know me as Kathryn Morrow, but maybe the name ‘Dr. Kay Morrow’ rings a bell.”
The eyebrow cocked again. “That’s you?”
“That’s me. And I think I owe you an apology. The red Mustang I remembered, well… This is embarrassing for me to admit.”
“Go on.”
She did. “Documented psychological studies have proven time and time again that eye-witnesses are sometimes the worst witnesses, if you know what I mean. In the frenzy of a traumatic event, the mind occasionally makes up its own facts...”
Odessa nodded. “I’ve seen that happen.”
“Right,” she agreed, perhaps too quickly. “The witness to a crime thinks the perpetrator was black, when he wasn’t. They remember a different hair color… eye color.” Again, Kathryn flashed a convincing smile and added, “Or car color. And I thought I was smarter than my subconscious. I should have known better.”
“So you’re saying your subconscious tricked you into thinking the car was red, when it was gray.”
“Exactly. And as a fairly well-known psychologist…”
“On the radio, at least.”
“Yes,” she said unhappily at his dismissive comment. “‘On the radio, at least…’”
Odessa stole another glance at the photo in his hands, then looked away and set it aside with a soft sigh.
“Is there anything else, detective?”
“No.” Odessa slid the image back into his file folder and finally made eye contact again. When he spoke, his voice was distant… and eerily familiar. “Thank you for your time, Ms. – I mean Doctor – Morrow.’
She was back in her car before she allowed herself to think about Detective Odessa’s voice. She was certain she had heard it before.
She was also still certain that car had been red.
She wasn’t due back to the studio until that evening, but she drove straight from them police station to the boxy white-brick building just outside the city limits, breaking the law in the process to call Tom from her cell phone. He agreed to meet her there; in fact, he made it to the studio a half-minute before her car pulled into the lot.
“What’s up?” he asked, when she walked into the lobby, but she kept walking, making a beeline for Tom’s production booth. He scrambled to keep pace until he finally caught up with her when she reached the locked production room door and again had a chance to breathlessly ask, “What’s up?”
She wasn’t sure what she was feeling – a strange combination of panic and rationality; fear and defiance – but she said quite calmly, “The show tapes. I want to hear the show tapes.”
A tinge of anger crept into his voice. “That’s what this is all about?”
She turned and gave him a smile, but it wasn’t the smile she had offered Detective Odessa. It was the smile of a woman who was going to get what she wanted, and no one would stand in her way. She didn’t care how nice a guy Tom was; now, she wasn’t Kathryn Morrow. She was Dr. Kay Morrow, and Dr. Kay Morrow knew how to take control.
“Tom, you are going to do what I say.”
He felt the steel in her voice on his spine and took his keys out his pocket. As he unlocked the door, he dared to ask, “Are we looking for anything in particular?”
“Yes. I want to hear Adam’s voice.”
Kathryn was such a fool. The voice on the tape, Adam's voice, wasn't Odessa. Or, more accurately, the voice could be anyone. It was such a bland, generic voice. It's only character came from its broken rhythm and breathy tone. The call was still creepy to her, no doubt, but hearing it again, it was plain that the caller's intention was to scare her, and every syllable he uttered made that plain.
She felt humiliated by the fact that she'd been taken in by such an obvious effort to unnerve her. On any other day, she thought, she'd have just shrugged off that call. But on the day of the hit and run, it got inside her, and now she was haunted by that cold, disembodied voice.
And, of course, Tom was annoyed with her now. When she had her conviction that something was terribly wrong behind her she didn't care what he thought. Now, it was one more embarrassment on her list to fret over. She wouldn't be sending any more late night calls his way in the foreseeable future, that's for sure.
And yet, there was one creepy thing she discovered tonight. There were no screening tapes. Tom had spent hours looking through the old tapes, but the only recording they had of Adam came from that one appearance on the show. Somehow, when he called, he'd skipped over the screening process entirely.
"How is that even possible?" she demanded when Tom couldn't produce anything.
"I don't know." Tom shrugged, a boyish look of dismay on his face. "It's not possible, I guess. But it's true."
"Are you fucking with me?"
She knew he wasn't, but could think of nothing else to say.
"The only thing I can think is that someone erased them, but there's no one with access that would take the time. And then why not erase the show tape too? It's just not reasonable."
She roamed her apartment that night like a caged animal, jumping from one useless task to another. She searched YouTube hoping to find a video of the hit and run, but came up empty. She tried to watch television, annoyed by its noise until she turned it off. She tried in vain to find someone to call to vent her frustrations to, laying down her cell again and again, in impotent defeat.
"This isn't healthy," she muttered under her breath.
Finally, she decided to expel her frustrations through activity. She walked into the kitchen and began cleaning. She had just run dishwater when she was interrupted by a faint rhythm pumping softly from the next room. Her cell.
She walked into the living room, spooked for some reason. Her cell lay on the arm of her couch, its screen lit, vibrating and pumping out a tinny version of "Where It's At." She was annoyed that her hand trembled as she reached for it.
She caught herself and laughed. The ring tone was such a ridiculous thing to be listening to while afraid. She really needed to get a grip on herself.
"Hello?"
The voice that responded made her go cold with fear.
"Hi there, Kat. Is your refrigerator running?" It was that same breathy cadence, unmistakable. Adam spoke in a demented sing-song to her. "Better run and catch it. Better run, better run."
Her blood ran cold. How did he know her cell phone number? It certainly wasn’t listed. More importantly, how did he know her? Who was he? Had he been someone from her past?
Her mind raced as her trembling hand held the cell phone close to her ear, the strange Adam still on the line. Something inside her told her not to hang up. She finally took a deep breath and decided to speak.
“Hello? Are you still there? Adam…?”
“Yes,” replied the voice on the other line. “You really should fix that refrigerator.” He let out a very light chuckle.
“You’re right.” She wanted to change the subject, to use her power as a therapist to figure out who he was and what he wanted. She tried her best to keep calm and speak casually. “So, how have you been? What have you been up to?”
“Now, you know that isn’t important, Kat.” His voice was steady and focused. He knew how to play her game, whatever game that happened to be.
“Oh? But I really want to know.”
“Well, I know what you did. Do you want to focus on that instead?”
Now she wanted to play his game. Or at least pretend to do so. Anything to find out who this guy was.
“Sure, let’s focus on my day,” she said rather confidently. “What did I do today?”
“You spent some time trying to find some tapes, didn’t you?”
She froze.
“I guess you can’t get enough of hearing my voice, huh?” He spoke so clearly, with very little emotion. He could be a therapist himself. Maybe he was. Is that how she knew him? Was he a colleague? If so, why was her pestering her? And how did he know she and Tom searched for those tapes earlier?
“Of course,” she said with an air of sarcasm. “I simply can’t live without listening to your voice.” She was surprised how calm she was. Perhaps her adrenaline had kicked in so much that her nerves had somehow been steadied.
“If you wanted to hear my voice, all you had to do was ask.”
“Oh,” she began. “But how could I contact you? You called me, remember?”
“I know, my friend. But you can just as easily call me. You have my number, remember?”
She just realized she hadn’t looked at the caller I.D. when she had first answered the phone. She quickly checked. “Unavailable.” Damn! She should have known. Maybe it was someone she knew. Maybe not. But he claimed she had his number.
“I don’t think I have your number handy.” She took another deep breath. “Could you remind me?”
“Oh, I think you have it. It’s probably not in your cell phone contact list. But check your little black book. It should be there.”
What? Little black book? She hadn’t used an actual phone book in years. Was this Adam someone from years ago? That name—Adam. Adam, Adam, Adam. It didn’t ring a bell. But she had to know him somehow. After all, if he knew so much about her and was able to find out what she was doing and what was going on in her life, their paths must have crossed at least once.
Or was he just some psycho stalker who was watching her every move?
Kathryn quietly cleared her throat. "Adam," she said coolly, trying to prevent her voice from betraying her nervousness. "I really must apologize, but I'm having trouble placing you."
"I'm hurt," Adam replied, mockingly. "I always thought everyone remembered their first."
Adam's words took Kathryn by surprise. What did he mean by her "first?" Her first, what? Her mind raced as she thought back to the men who had been important in her life.
Whoever this Adam was, Kathryn was sure he wasn't the first guy with whom she had ever had sex. That had been Quinn McCafferty, the summer she turned 15. Quinn was now married with three children, and lived in Connecticut. Besides, he and Kathryn stayed in regular contact after reconnecting on Facebook, so she'd certainly recognize his voice.
Adam also couldn't possibly be her first love -- Andy Miller.
Kathryn still choked up every time she thought of Andy, and even after all of these years, she couldn't help feeling responsible for his death.
Kathryn and Andy began dating in their sophomore year of high school and had been practically inseparable. Their friends envied their relationship, and everyone was certain they'd marry after high school and live "happily ever after."
However, in the months leading up to graduation, they were frequently arguing and the relationship was beginning to crumble.
Kathryn had been accepted to UCLA - nearly two thousand miles from their hometown in Nebraska - and she was excited to move to California. However, Andy was content to stay in Greenwood, and had planned to take over his father's appliance store after high school.
Andy had also looked forward to marrying Kathryn and raising a family together, but Kathryn wanted something different and had hoped Andy would move to Los Angeles with her. She wanted to meet new people and broaden her horizons. She wasn't ready to be married and have children at that age, and she certainly didn't want to be stuck in Greenwood for the rest of her life.
Kathryn had begun to feel that if Andy couldn't understand that, then perhaps they weren't meant for each other after all.
Only a few weeks after graduation, they had their worst fight ever. Kathryn, frustrated by what she felt was Andy's lack of ambition, had lashed out at him with pure vitriol.
"You'll never amount to anything if you stay here," she had said, scornfully. "You'll live a dull, wasted existence like your father and everyone else in this rotten town!"
Andy's face had reddened with anger and he had parted his lips, as if to speak, but stopped himself. Instead, he stormed out of Kathryn's parents' house and jumped into his car.
"Let him sulk," Kathryn remembered thinking. "Maybe he'll finally grow some fucking balls."
Hours later, Kathryn's mother had awakened her from a fitful sleep.
"Kathy, sweetheart," her mother had said, with tears filling her eyes. "There's been an accident. Andy's gone."
Andy's body had been burned beyond recognition, so Kathryn wasn't allowed to see him, but she still remembered watching as his demolished car was towed from the crash scene the next morning.
His beautiful, red Mustang, crumpled like a discarded piece of paper.
That last memory snapped her back to the present, as the realization sent a shiver down her spine.
"Oh my God," she thought. "Andy drove a red Mustang, exactly like the one I saw on the morning of the accident!"
“Kay, dear, I can hear the wheels turning. Do you remember me now?” Adam’s voice brought her back to reality.
Almost choking on her fear and sadness, Kay tried to keep her voice level. “The only first that you could possibly be to me is my first stalker. If you won’t leave me alone, be man enough to show your face.”
“I’m a man without a face, sweetheart.” And, with that, Adam hung up.
Kay stared at the phone in her hand for a long time. Burn victims can have damaged vocal cords, leading to soft, raspy voices. If you’re burned bad enough, she thought, you’re face might be just a map of scars and grafts.
She knew it was crazy; but she couldn’t stop the thoughts in her head. What if Andy lived? She had gone to the funeral, been at his parents house as well-meaning friends and family offered their condolences and food. She had helped his mother tearfully go through his room and put away his belongings.
Determined to put her irrational fear to rest, she booted up her laptop. She found the obituary, the newspaper articles, the horrific photos of the accident. His Mustang was so twisted and burned that it was barely recognizable. She relived that night and the agonizing months that followed. It had taken her three months to face the fact that she needed therapy. Three long months of hiding from the world, blanketing herself in grief and guilt.
After six months, she had convinced her therapist that she was past the “guilt stage”. She gave convincing speeches on how she had not been the one behind the wheel. On how she could not hold herself responsible for his reckless actions. She was so convincing that she almost convinced herself.
“Maybe that’s why I chose a career in therapy.” She almost laughed at the thought. What she did was a far cry from the therapy that she endured all those years ago.
After hours of scouring the net, revisiting her pain, and a few more bottles of wine; she fell into a fitful sleep on her mangled couch. Her dreams were vivid and troublesome. She saw Andy’s accident as if she had been standing on the side of the road. She tried to run and save him; but she couldn’t move. She tried to scream for help; but no sound came out. The ambulance never came. She stood helplessly as the car burned. When the flames finally subsided and the smoke was almost cleared; a figure came walking out of the wreckage. Black and mangled as the car.
Her own scream awoke her. Gasping for air, she tried to calm herself. The beating on the door startled her so much; she almost screamed again. She cautiously got up from the couch and silently made her way to the door. The pounding came again.
“Are you okay?” Her neighbor’s nervous voice calmed her.
“Yes, I’m sorry for the noise. I just had a really bad nightmare.” She answered, not opening the door.
“Are you sure? Would you like me to come in and sit with you? Have some tea?”
“No, really, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern and sorry to have bothered you.” She answered, amazed at the steadiness of her voice. She certainly didn’t feel steady. She was clammy and nauseous.
* * *
After a few Tylenol PM, she finally managed to fall asleep, but her dreams wouldn’t let her sleep peacefully because guilt can be powerful, especially unresolved, unexamined guilt. Could Adam be Andy? Could her last words to him have cursed his final hours? Is it possible he could have survived that horrific accident? Kathryn had no answers to the many questions which flooded her mind, but she knew she had to find a way beyond this anxiety or it would do irreparable damage to her job, her friends, and her life.
The next morning, she decided she needed answers, so she told Tom she would be taking the next two days to take care of some family business, and she drove to Greenwood to see Andy’s mother.
As her car rolled to a stop in front of the house, she didn’t quite know what she was going to say to the woman who thought of her like a daughter while she was dating Andy. The house was just as she remembered: a white split-level ranch with burgundy trim, the close-cropped lawn which Andy’s father kept meticulously green through assorted chemicals and religious watering, and the wildflowers which grew along the driveway, botanical fringe to offset the red brick driveway. Walking toward the door, Kathryn’s heart pounded as if it would burst through her chest, but she had to do this. She not only needed answers, but she also needed closure. Tentatively, she knocked on the burgundy door, recalling all those times when she and Andy came by to see his parents for dinner every few weeks. A face peered through the sidelight for a moment, and then Kathryn heard the jingling of the lock. As the door opened, a face she had not seen for a long time looked back at her, and she felt more at ease.
“Kathryn, is that really you?” asked Andy’s mother, holding the door as if it were the only thing keeping her standing.
“Yes, Gladys, it’s me,” she smiled.
“Well, don’t just stand there, honey. Come in. It’s so good to see you.”
The burgundy door closed behind her, and for the first time in a very long time, Kathryn felt calm. Gladys gestured for her to go into the kitchen and sit at the table while she put out some iced tea.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Kathryn,” Gladys began. “I really hope you don’t still feel guilty about Andy’s death. You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”
Sipping some tea, Kathryn paused to look at Gladys’ face. The woman hadn’t really aged all that much since the last time she saw her. The last she saw her was at Andy’s funeral.
“Yes,” Kathryn said, softly. “I know. I still struggle with it a little, but I know deep down I had nothing to do with…” She couldn’t say it.
“With Andy’s death,” Gladys said, finishing the sentence. “It’s okay to say it.” The gentle woman placed her hand over Kathryn’s on the table. “So, what brings you to Greenwood? I thought you told Andy you didn’t want to come back. Something about starting a career…”
Kathryn, who always had something to say, couldn’t find the words to express herself. Taking another sip of tea, she padded her lips with the paper napkin Gladys had put next to the glass. This trip couldn’t be for nothing, she told herself, so she explained to her former boyfriend’s mother the entire story, from the accident she had witnessed to the unnerving phone calls from ‘Adam’.
“Hm,” Gladys said at the name.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Gladys replied, trying to be casual.
“Gladys, you can’t play poker, and you can’t hide things from me,” Kathryn said, smiling. “Remember those times when you used to sneak cigarettes, and all I had to do was look at you a certain way, and you’d spill that you’d been down the street at the park smoking? What is it?”
“Before Andy met you, we lived in Tampa, FL. In fact, my family is originally from Florida. Harry—you remember Harry—well, he died a few months ago.”
“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me? You know I would have come out to help.”
“I know, that’s why I didn’t call you. I needed time to myself after the man I had been married to for 35 years just up and died. Anyway, Harry and I had tried to have children when we first got married, but he… he had a low sperm count,” she said, rushing that part. “Anyway, we tried and tried to have children, and we had some false alarms—those damn pregnancy tests—but we eventually got pregnant, and we had Andy. We really didn’t think that it would happen again, since Harry had that problem, you know. Well, when Andy was just three, I got pregnant again. We had another son.”
“I didn’t know Andy had a brother? He never mentioned it.”
“He wouldn’t have. He was always jealous of Andy, no matter what we tried to do to treat them equally. Andy tried to be the best brother he could, but it just wasn’t enough. Eventually, when both the boys were in their teens, we moved here to Greenwood. I thought the change would help, and it did for a little while.”
Kathryn felt a twinge in her chest.
“Gladys,” she began, “what was Andy’s brother’s name?”
“Michael…”
Kathryn instantly felt the twinge go away.
“…but, he preferred to go by his middle name, Adam.”
Taking a sip of iced tea, Kathryn felt the uncomfortable feeling return. Slowly, her heart started to beat more noticeably.
“What ever happened to Michael…er…Adam?”
Andy’s mother’s face fell a little, and she nervously wiped the condensation off her glass, folding the napkin afterward.
“He and Andy couldn’t get along, and Harry and I couldn’t figure out why. Whatever Andy got, Michael wanted. If Andy got new clothes, Michael took them and tried to wear them, even though they didn’t fit him. When Andy dated someone, Michael always hung around, making the poor girl uncomfortable, so she’d eventually break up with Andy. Eventually, Harry and I decided to send Michael to his aunt, my sister, in Oakstead, about fifty miles from here. He didn’t want to leave. I suppose, even with the jealousy, he loved his brother very much, but Andy was fed up with him.”
“What happened? I mean, neither you nor Harry, or even Andy, ever mentioned him. In fact, I don’t ever remember seeing any pictures of him.”
Kathryn’s initial curiosity made her now quite uncomfortable.
Gladys pursed her lips a little, trying to put something into words. She spoke softly, carefully, almost as if she were trying to be respectful of the dead.
“Michael didn’t do very well with my sister. In fact… he tried to hurt her. She had him committed to a psychiatric facility in Oakstead, but she still insisted on visiting him every week. Dear Angela… she always thought she could save people, no matter how lost they were.”
“Is she okay?”
“Oh, yes. She moved to New York after a few months when she realized Michael wanted nothing to do with her. She would just sit with him for hours, supervised, of course. He said nothing. She would try to tell him things about the people she saw, the places she went. When she moved, we decided it was best to leave Michael there. I tried to speak to him once, but he told me he wanted nothing to do with us ever again, and I should never contact him. It hurt me so much, but I knew it was for the best. Harry and I promised not to talk about him. We threw away everything we had of his, including all his pictures, even the baby pictures. That almost killed me inside. He was my baby, after all.”
Kathryn wanted to know if Michael was still in the Oakstead facility, but she wouldn’t ask Gladys. Something told her she didn’t want to go down that path, but another something told her that that path was also leading right to her. She began to think that maybe Michael had been released.
“Gladys, is it likely that Michael will ever be released from Oakstead?”
“I suppose it’s possible. Angela told me that, if Michael had shown improvement in his violent tendencies over a certain period of time, he might be able to get some unsupervised time away from the facility. I would think that Oakstead would call us before they let him do that, though. Wouldn’t you think?”
“Do you happen to have the number, by any chance?”
“I do. It’s next to the phone. Why?”
Without answering Gladys, Kathryn moved to the phone, found the number on a business card, and dialed.
“Oakstead Psychiatric Hospital. May I help you?”
Kathryn steadied her voice. “Yes, I was wondering if you could tell me if a patient is still in residence?”
“I’m sorry. We can only give that information to members of a patient’s family, or a patient’s doctor.”
“Oh, well, I am Dr. Kay Morrow.”
“The doctor from the radio show?”
“Yes, that would be me. I’m wondering about a patient of mine who became a resident of your facility. I wanted to visit to see how he was doing.”
“That request takes 24 hours to process, but may I ask which patient you would like to see?”
“Michael Preston.”
“Hmm. We don’t have a Michael Preston in residence.”
“Oh. He might be going by Adam. Adam Preston.”
“Yes, we had an Adam Preston.”
“Had?”
“He was released a few months ago, after the Review Board examined his progress.”
A chill brushed the back of Kathryn’s neck.
“Do you know where he would have gone? I would really like to follow up with him.”
The receptionist told Kathryn that Michael’s former doctor would have that information, since he would have arranged outpatient therapy for Michael. She would patch Kathryn through to him, assuming he was in his office.
Dr. Albert, once he heard who was on the phone, immediately began telling Kathryn how much of a fan he was of her radio show. Flattered, she tried to redirect him to the whereabouts of Michael, or rather, Adam.
“The last known address I have for him is Los Angeles. That was about two months ago, I believe.”
The blood drained from Kathryn’s face, and she mechanically hung up the phone without saying goodbye to Dr. Albert.
“What is it, dear?” Gladys asked.
Kathryn sat down again and finished her iced tea, staring blankly into the kitchen.
“Los Angeles,” she uttered, incredulously. “He’s in L.A.”
The words had barely left her lips when her cell phone rang, making both women jump. As she looked down at the phone, she saw, “Unavailable.”
“Damn. It’s him.”
“Who, dear?”
“Adam.”
Note to self, she thought, change the damn ring tone. She suddenly had a thought, and a smile slowly crept across her face. The little black book Adam mentioned before.
“Hello, Adam.”
“Well, you seem almost glad to hear from me, Kat. Enjoying your chat with Mom?”
She realized that he would have followed her, so she wasn’t thrown by his question.
“As a matter of fact, I am… Michael.”
Silence.
“What’s wrong, Michael? Did I say something to upset you?”
“Not at all. How is dear old Mom doing?”
She could hear it in his voice. He was thrown off his game. Now, he would be her plaything for a while.
“Just fine. She was telling me all about you, and your penchant for hurting others. I actually pity you.”
Her confidence angered him.
“Shut up. It’s all lies!”
“What, Michael? What lies?” Her composure grew with each passing moment.
“Dammit…my name is Adam!”
“Okay, Michael, whatever you say.”
His heavy breathing made her smile. She knew she was getting to him. Putting her hand over her cellphone, she—very calmly—told Gladys to call the police. Unsure of what to do exactly, Gladys moved toward the phone, but turned, as if to ask why.
“Because this is the endgame. Michael, Adam, or whoever he is… he’s not going to hurt me, or anyone else, anymore. Now, please, Gladys, call the police.”
In her heart, she wanted to scream to her son and tell him what Kathryn wanted to do, but then she thought of Andy, and her sister, and she dialed 911.
“You still there, Kat?” His voice had regained its composure.
“Yes, I’m still here. So, tell me, how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill your brother, Andy.”
Silence.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I think I know. Cut his break lines? Tamper with his transmission? You see, I’ve had a revelation, Michael… sorry, Adam. The accident I witnessed made me think about Andy’s death, but it doesn’t matter what color the car was that I saw. It was Andy’s red Mustang that matters now. You wanted his car, didn’t you?”
“He didn’t deserve any of it.”
“Deserve what?”
“I’m not going to play your game.”
“Why not? I’ve been playing yours. What else did you want of his?” And then, it hit her. “You wanted me. You knew he was dating me. Your mother probably told your aunt Angela, who told you, since she wanted to keep you in the loop of the family.”
“He didn’t deserve anything!”
She continued as if he weren’t saying anything. “You killed him, thinking you could have me. You probably came to Greenwood, arranged his death, but decided to go back to Angela’s to lie low afterward.”
She enjoyed when he went silent. Instinctually, she carefully looked out the window and saw a black Chevy about a block away, with a man sitting in the driver’s seat. She couldn’t make out his face, but he seemed to be on a phone.
“When you were released from Oakstead, you went to L.A. to find me. You knew with Andy out of the way, you’d have no obstacle to get me.”
Damn, she was good.
“You probably saw a billboard with my face on it, tuned into the radio show, and then called that night. Am I even close? Don’t bother to answer.”
Gladys sat mesmerized by the one-sided conversation, wondering if her son was saying anything at all. She prayed to G-d that whatever was going to happen would happen quickly, and without more grief. In the distance, she heard sirens, so she knew it wouldn’t be long.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I did what I had to do, Adam.”
“You know you won’t win.”
“I already have.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. And now, I’ll have to deal with my mother and you. Look at what you’re making me do.”
“Everything we do is a choice, Adam. Choices have consequences, so choose wisely.”
“Very witty, Kat. Is that from psychology textbook? I’m smarter than that.”
“Oh, I know, Adam. I’m counting on it. If you want me, you know where I am. Now’s your chance.”
Glancing through the curtain, she could see Adam. He got out of the car and moved slowly toward the house. Sirens blared even more loudly, and the car’s lights could be seen sparking about two blocks away. Even with the police car advancing, Adam still moved slowly. He seemed unarmed, but she had no idea what he would do. With a sudden thought, she ran over to the front door and latched it.
“Gladys, go upstairs. Now.”
Without hesitation, the older woman did as she was told, more out of fear than anything else.
By the time that Adam got to the kitchen window, he was shouting for Kathryn.
“What’s wrong, Kat? Afraid to let me in? Afraid I’m too much man for you? I’d be so much better for you than Andy. He was weak, and he never knew how to please a woman.”
He pounded on the glass, shaking the panes. With every fistfall, Kathryn thought the window would shatter. It seemed as if he were just trying to get her attention. A voice from outside, not Adam’s could be heard over his shouting.
“Put your hands over your head and kneel on the ground. Now!”
Adam continued to taunt Kathryn, pounding more on the glass.
“Get on the ground! Now!” the policeman shouted, his gun pointed right at the back of Adam’s head.
Adam complied, kneeling before the window, his hands laced behind his head. And he was laughing.
“You think you’ve won, Kat. You think you’ve won. Andy couldn’t have you. And if I can’t, no one can!”
With that, he reached around, lunging for the policeman’s handgun. A shot rang out, shattering the window, and Adam was pinned to the ground by two other policemen. All Adam could do was laugh. When they took him away, handcuffed, he laughed, singing,
“Pulling out jives and jamboree handouts
Two turntables and a microphone
Bottles and cans just clap your hands just clap your hands,
Where it’s at…”
Gladys came down the stairs slowly and stood by the window, watching the policemen take her little baby away. She stood next to Kathryn, who was crying, but these tears were of closure. She wasn’t thinking about Adam. She was thinking about Andy. After all this time, she was finally at peace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)