Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller

by Jeff Menapace

  “From who?”

  “Some girl at work.”

  Kinda true, right?

  “Aaaahhhh…” he said. “Do I know her?”

  I needed to bury this thing now.

  “Nah—it’s not like that, man,” I said, as blasé as possible. “It’s one of my managers. It’s a work thing.”

  “You are aware of the primary purpose behind a cellular phone, yes?”

  “If it’s noisy in the bar I might miss the call.”

  “So put it on vibrate, let it tickle your balls. Win, win.”

  I laughed.

  He said: “You want me to pick you up?”

  “No, that’s alright. I’ll meet you there. Give me an hour to get showered and shaved.” This seemed most logical to me; if Angela did call tonight, I would need to be able to move about freely without having to rely on Paul for transportation.

  “Alright,” he said. “Do a good job though—I hear it’s like 70’s porn down there.”

  “Your sister’s a liar.”

  We laughed and hung up. I took my time getting ready. Checked my cell several times to ensure it was completely charged. I was not sure whether or not Angela even had my cell phone number, but something told me she would find me when she needed to. I also noticed—peeking out my bedroom window—that her car was no longer in the parking lot where I’d left it.

  14

  I pulled into the parking lot of Mick’s Tavern and spotted Paul’s gray Jetta with the Yankees bumper sticker already in attendance. I bet myself he would already be sidled up to the bar, beer in one hand, pretty girl in the other.

  The moment I entered, I collected on my bet. Ironically, Paul was a people person, the complete opposite of me. He was so utterly likeable that even a complete xenophobe (fear of strangers; I looked it up) would not hesitate to jump into his lap upon meeting him for the first time. I envied him at times, not so much for who he was, but for his outlook on life—the glass wasn’t just half-full for my friend, it was half-full with liquid gold. How we became as close as we did was a paradox I never bothered dissecting. Why would I? Paul was like a windfall from a relative you never knew. You don’t dig too deep into that kind of thing, you just enjoy it.

  “What’s up, my brother?” Paul said as I approached, getting off his stool to give me a hug.

  I returned his hug and added a firm couple of pats on his back. It was good to see my friend.

  The girl he’d been chatting with smiled and said to him, “It was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you later?”

  Paul smiled back. “Definitely.”

  Both of us looked at her ass as she walked away.

  I said: “I smell or something?”

  “She’s shy,” he said. “And yes, you do.”

  The bartender appeared. Tall, good-looking dude, built like a superhero. Probably took home a different girl every night.

  “What can I get you, man?” he asked me.

  “Shot of Beam and a lager.”

  He nodded and left.

  “Coming strong out of the gates,” Paul said. “Thought you had to work tomorrow.”

  “Let’s worry about that tomorrow.”

  The bartender brought my drinks. I pulled out my debit card and handed it to him.

  “Wanna keep this open?” he asked.

  I pounded the shot then took a heavy pull on my lager. “Yeah—” I pointed to my empty shot glass. “—and an encore on that please.”

  The bartender nodded, spun, plucked the Beam bottle from the shelf, spun back, filled my shot glass, then spun back again and replaced the bottle on the shelf.

  I threw back my second shot and took another swig of my beer.

  “Dude, pace yourself,” Paul said. “What about that phone call from your manager? You wanna talk to her hammered?”

  (Yeah, Calvin—what happened to staying sober in case Angela called tonight? Guess my flight to Fantasy World will be right on schedule—that is if I don’t drown first.)

  I squeezed Paul’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine, man. Just taking the edge off.”

  (So sad. You just can’t help yourself, can you? How does the saying go? One drink is too many; a hundred is never enough?)

  “Day was that bad, huh?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Could have been better.”

  “Anything you wanna talk about?”

  I raised my beer to his. “Nah—I’m good.”

  He raised his beer and we clinked glasses.

  “You sure?” he said.

  I shook my head with conviction. “I’m good.”

  * * *

  A few cocktails later and I was greeted by my old friend Mr. Buzz. Paul had his back to me, busy chatting up the girl he’d met earlier. I had a feeling I was going to be without conversation for a few minutes, so I went and ordered myself another round, intentionally skipping Paul so as not to disturb him. Don’t get me wrong; I knew Paul would eventually introduce me to his new friend, but I thought it best to leave him be for now.

  The fact that I knew Paul would definitely introduce me to the girl was probably one of my favorite qualities in his character. There was no doubt the man loved women, but he also loved his friends, and his friends always came before pussy. So many friends claim unbridled loyalty, but the moment a pair of tits bounced in their face you were a stranger, a threat to Mission: Laid.

  Not Paul. Not ever. The man could be in bed with Salma Hayek, I could bang on his door, tell him I needed help, and he would instantly pull out (probably apologize to Salma) and come to my aid.

  “Calvin, have you met Stacy?” he inevitably asked me, knowing very well I hadn’t.

  I smiled and shook her hand with a polite grip. “Very nice to meet you, Stacy.” Then, looking at Paul, but loud enough for Stacy to hear: “She’s beautiful.”

  Paul splayed his hands with a pleasant face that read coincidence. “I was just telling her the same thing.”

  Transparent attempt at denying compliment in 3…2…

  “Stop it,” she said, gushing smile asking for seconds.

  Paul went on, feeding her her seconds. Plenty of dessert too. She smiled, giggled, blushed, chortled, and every other type of fawning verb for the next five or so minutes as Paul did his thing, mercifully limiting my contribution; he knew I was only there in body, my mind elsewhere. Not an unusual thing for me, and something Paul was more than familiar with. Many times he was able to hook me before I drifted too far, reel me back into a better place. It was his gift; something no one else had been able to do throughout all twenty-nine years of my life.

  Except tonight my mind wasn’t drifting towards the usual dark corners it had gone before. It was (justifiably, understandably, logically, no-shit-ably) pre-occupied with Angela. It all felt like the old tale about the monkey’s paw. I had gotten my wish, gotten Angela, but at what cost? I had to kill someone.

  (Yup.)

  I killed someone.

  (Yup.)

  This is not a dream.

  (Nope.)

  What happened was real.

  (Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll look out your window now, you should see the infamous Fantasy World just below. Fantasy World was first settled by vaginas too afraid to embrace the realities of the real world. Here, these vaginas cultivated a way of life capable of nurturing their pathetic little delusions of grandeur, far, far away from any actualities that may appear.)

  Holy shit, I really fucking killed someone—

  “CAL!”

  I blinked. Both Paul and Stacy were staring at me. Apparently Paul had been trying to get my attention while I was lost.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You alright?”

  No—I’m a killer.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

  Paul frowned, gave me that subtle look of his that asked if I was drifting again.

  “Stacy’s friends are going to meet her here in a few minutes,” he said. “We were thinking about getting a table in back. Soun
d good?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, fine.”

  “Okay…Stacy, you mind grabbing a table? I wanna talk to Cal for a minute.”

  Stacy agreed, smiled, and then headed back. I knew what was coming next.

  Paul inched towards me, spoke low and with a hand on my shoulder. “You sure you’re alright, man?”

  I can’t tell him. I WON’T tell him.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You nervous about that call from your manager or something?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, I’m fine; I swear. Just a little out of it, that’s all.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “You sure? You know you can tell me anything.”

  I needed to squash this. There was no way I was going to tell him anything. I just had to be sure I would not slip up in a drunken stupor.

  (So stop drinking then.)

  I needed some kind of guarantee.

  (STOP DRINKING.)

  So I hurt myself.

  After convincing Paul everything was fine, I excused myself to the bathroom, near-empty pint of lager in hand. I found an empty stall and locked myself in. I gulped the remainder of my beer and flushed the john, the industrial-strength noise of the flush the exact cover I was looking for while I quickly smashed the pint glass on the rim of the toilet. What remained in my hand was the dense circular base of the glass—razor shards like flat icicles sticking out of that base.

  I palmed the bottom of the broken glass, lifted my pant leg, and with one violent motion, jammed the base of the broken pint glass into my calf. The pain was bad, but not as bad as I thought it would be, the alcohol no doubt my Novocain.

  I studied the result. The cuts were fairly deep; and it was bleeding a little more than I’d expected; but fortunately no glass had broken off and gotten lodged into my flesh.

  I quickly gathered a large wad of toilet paper and pressed it to the wound. The toilet paper was red in less than a minute. I gathered another wad, and pressed again. Gathered another and pressed again.

  This cycle repeated itself for several minutes until I was fairly confident the blood flow was not getting any worse, was in fact, getting better, perhaps beginning to congeal. I balled up a final wad and stuck it to the wound, blood holding the paper in its place. I rolled my pant leg down, grateful I was wearing jeans—khakis might have told the story if the cut started up again. I flushed the wads of bloodied tissue and any remaining glass shards. The thick base of the broken pint glass was too big to flush; it would have to go into the bathroom’s trash can.

  The wound had started to burn already, and this was good, but it also filled me with a strong sense of regret. It had been years since I had cut myself. It was a practice I used to perform in an attempt to try and feel, similar, I suppose, to the way a neglected child will misbehave in order to receive punishment—bad attention preferable to no attention. In my case, feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all. It is a practice that may seem ludicrous to some, but in the spirals of depression, it can be as enticing as a swimming pool during a scorcher.

  I’d gone years without cutting, and tonight I’d fallen off the wounding-wagon. But I was absolute in my reasoning. This evening’s cut was not for lack of feeling; it was a reminder. I would undoubtedly feel this wound on my calf for the remainder of the night. And no matter how drunk I got, the wound would remind me that I could not say anything to Paul about the mess I was in. I was doing this for him.

  (So thoughtful. If you really cared, you’d just stop drinking. What if one of Angela’s freaks is waiting for you when Paul inevitably drives you home?)

  I’ll call a cab.

  (Weak—you know he won’t let you do that.)

  Then I’ll drive drunk; I don’t give a shit.

  (Right—he won’t let you spend money on a cab, but he’s going to let you drive wasted? Try again, dumb ass.)

  Why are you always here now? You were never this fucking annoying before.

  (You never killed a guy before. Never agreed to star in films that make snuff look like Disney.)

  You don’t know that for sure. You don’t know that’s what I’m supposed to do.

  (Sure I do. It’s all been spelled out for you, dummy. A child could read it.)

  Why don’t you just fuck off? Just fuck off.

  (Why not go drink some more? Try and drown me for good?)

  Good idea.

  (That was a test, you weak, weak man.)

  I don’t care. Go back to your Fantasy World.

  (I wonder how long that world will be there, quarterback? Perhaps it won’t be long before you’re in the game and my flight becomes grounded indefinitely.)

  Fuck you. Go back.

  (So you can keep drinking?)

  Damn right. Go back to your stupid little world and prepare for a tsunami, bitch.

  I tossed the broken glass into the trash and shoved open the door. I spotted Paul and Stacy and two new girls at a table towards the back of the bar. They were already tucked in and emptying their drinks. I headed towards them.

  “Cal, this is Karen and Julie,” Paul said, gesturing to the new girls. “And of course you already met Stacy.”

  I nodded my hellos, my calf burning.

  “Are you gonna sit down?” Paul asked.

  I nodded and took a seat near Karen and Julie. Paul had obviously made his choice with Stacy; she was practically in his lap.

  I took in both Karen and Julie’s appearance with casual glances east and west. They were both attractive. Julie was blonde, like Stacy, and Karen a red head, though I don’t think it was a natural red. As far as I could tell, both ladies seemed to have nice figures. Karen looked as if she had fake tits: way too big and perky and close to the neck for someone as slim as she was. Some guys went nuts over implants; some guys hated them. I didn’t really care either way. As the old saying goes: if you can touch them, they’re real.

  “So what do you do?” Julie asked.

  “I’m a massage therapist,” I replied with a little trepidation. Even after six years I was still wary of the responses I received after telling people what I did for a living.

  “Really? Do you massage men too?” she asked, her tone proving my trepidations valid.

  “Of course,” I said. “I make most of my money on men. Word of mouth, ya know? Pun intended?” I mimed sucking a dick.

  She studied me for a tick, unsure whether I was lying or just being a dick. ’Twas indeed both.

  “You do not!” she finally blurted with all the grace of a belch.

  My calf and my head now hurt. I needed a drink and I needed for this girl to stop talking. I decided to address Karen.

  “You having fun over there?” I asked.

  Her attention had been fixed elsewhere while her obnoxious friend was taking up my time. I prayed they didn’t share the same demeanor.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said with a nice smile.

  “You’re Karen, right?”

  She nodded. “You’re Calvin?”

  “Yup.”

  I needed a decent opening before the awkward silence polluted the air.

  “So how do you know Stacy?” seemed harmless enough.

  “We all work together,” she replied. “How do you guys know Stacy?”

  I looked over at Paul, who now had his hand on Stacy’s knee and was

  whispering something into her ear. She giggled and leaned in closer to him.

  “We actually just met,” I said with a little smile.

  “Yeah—looks like it,” she said with a little smile of her own.

  I smiled again. Karen smiled again. Julie looked annoyed. I didn’t give a shit.

  “Do you guys need another drink?” I asked.

  I prayed they would say yes. Please don’t be the types who order one and then nurse the fucker for the remainder of the evening. Please be fun. I needed

  (alcohol)

  fun.

  “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks,” Karen said.

  They—alon
g with Stacy and Paul—gave me their orders, and I headed off to the bar, eager.

  15

  It was seven or eight rounds later and I was drunk; my memory, even from minutes ago, was a sieve. As I was taking a piss, I tried to catch as much as possible before it drained away (my memory, not my piss).

  I was fairly certain that Karen and I had become friendlier. And there was little doubt in my mind that Stacy was now ready to marry Paul. Did that Julie girl leave? Trying to focus on a particular incident was like trying to remember a film you saw as a kid.

  I could still feel my calf, so I was quite certain I hadn’t said anything to Paul. I couldn’t have; Stacy had been with him ninety-five percent of the time.

  How was everything else going? Was I being a fool? I’m pretty sure I was acting okay. A little affectionate and giddy, but nothing too bad. In the morning I would no doubt convince myself otherwise as my hangover-induced liturgy of doubt and insecurity would run endless laps in my head. Why couldn’t I just be like the majority of people in here and embrace my drunkenness? Laugh at my own stupidity the next day? Have no fear or regret about my gaping lack of inhibition?

  Why couldn’t I be like that?

  (Because you’re a depressed drunk. Fire and gas.)

  I thought I drowned you.

  (Still afloat.)

  I thought I wasn’t depressed, I thought I was just a pussy.

  (Oh you’re depressed—no question about that. You’ve been clinically depressed your whole life. Got dealt a bad hand.)

  But…?

  (But you’re a pussy because you know you shouldn’t drink, yet you do. You’re a pussy because you convince yourself there isn’t a line.)

  Line?

  (Between Fantasy World and here.)

  I don’t follow.

  (Doesn’t matter. It’ll all be irrelevant soon, won’t it?)

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  “What?”

  I turned. Two urinals down, a big dude, bigger than me, was taking a piss and glaring my way.

  “Sorry, man,” I slurred. “Was thinking out loud.”

  He didn’t respond. Just zipped up, washed his hands, and muttered something like “drunk fuck” before leaving.