You Don't Know Me

by David Klass

  But as I feebly protest, Gloria takes my right hand in her own, and I can feel myself being led toward the Great Bonanza Ranch House like a steer to the slaughter. And as we walk, Gloria whispers into my ear with her hot breath, “We’ll go down to the basement. My parents never go down there at night. You don’t have to worry about a thing. After all, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  14

  The Worst Thing that Could Happen

  I have some advice for you. If someone ever asks you what the worst thing that can happen is, don’t do what you are about to do. Get out. Fake a heart attack. Escape while you can. Especially if you are an unlucky person anyway, and you’ve just been hexed by chapter 13.

  The Great Bonanza Ranch House is quiet as we enter. There is no dissonant music. No ginger snaps are snapping. The bulldozer is apparently upstairs.

  “This way,” Gloria says, leading me to the back of the house. From the front, the Great Bonanza Ranch House looks like a one-story structure, but behind and to one side of the house the land falls away sharply, allowing a lower story.

  We pass through a door and descend carpeted stairs to a large, dark, finished basement. The place smells of wood. Split logs are piled up near a brick fireplace. “My father splits those by hand,” Gloria says, “can you imagine? What a waste of time. He does it with this big, mean ax he keeps as sharp as a razor. One stroke per log. Chop. Chop. Chop.”

  “I really, definitely think I should be going . . .” I say.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry, John,” Gloria says, stepping closer to me. “We have lots of time.”

  I hear something behind me and spin around.

  She laughs. “It’s only D.D. My cat.”

  “What does ‘D.D.’ stand for?” I ask.

  “Dead Dickman,” she says. “It’s kind of an inside joke. Why don’t you take off your shoes, John.”

  “My shoes? Why?”

  “Well, then we can snuggle up on the couch. I’ll put on some nice music.”

  Now, it is an odd thing, but if you had asked me two weeks ago, or even a day ago, if I would like to kick off my shoes and snuggle up on a couch with Glory Hallelujah, my brain would have turned a cartwheel inside its cranial pan. But at this moment, when such a fantasy is about to become a reality, all that my brain can focus on is the necessity of immediate flight. “Get out,” my brain is tapping out in desperate Morse code to the signal stations in near and remote provinces of my body. “Flee, fool. Or you will go down in history as the second Jerry Dickman, and one day there will be a cat in this basement named after you, too.”

  Unfortunately, my brain is no longer in control. Certain other parts of my body that good manners do not permit me to describe have seized the throne, so to speak, and are issuing orders in one- and two-word bursts: “Stay! Sit! Unshoe yourself!” I find myself, therefore, sitting on the giant couch, taking off my shoes.

  Suddenly the single overhead light dims. Slow, pulsating music floods the basement. I do not believe that we are listening to Debussy. This does not sound like “The Afternoon of a Faun.” This sounds like “The Evening by the Steamy Lagoon.” Glory Hallelujah, I do not mean to question your choice of music, nor your sense of appropriate volume, but you have cranked this up so loud that I believe the entire basement is throbbing.

  I myself have nothing against loud music, particularly if the girl who turned it on is now sashaying in my direction with a smile on her face and her two soft blue eyes glinting mischievously, like sapphires in twilight. But there is, as science has fully documented, a direct connection between loud sound stimuli and waking up suddenly in a bad temper. And the Great Bonanza Ranch House, while lovely and sprawling, is rather compact in vertical design structure. I am, of course, not an architect, nor am I an acoustics engineer, nor am I that familiar with the sleeping habits of bulldozers, but I am worried. I stand up and intercept Gloria several steps from the couch. “Maybe we should turn this music down. We don’t want to disturb your parents.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Glory Hallelujah reassures me. “My mother has already taken her sleeping pills, and my father sleeps with earplugs. Boy, it’s hot in here. Don’t you want to take off your jacket?”

  Glory Hallelujah, I do not want to take off my jacket. I do not think that would be appropriate behavior, given the shortness of our close acquaintanceship.

  “That’s better. But you’re wearing a sweater underneath. Why don’t you take that off, too, Johnny?”

  Here, Glory Hallelujah, I draw the line. This Christmas sweater was given to me by my dear old mother, and it would be ungrateful of me to remove it, not to mention inappropriate, given the fact that I am not wearing any undershirt beneath it . . .

  “C’mon, silly, arms up.”

  Glory Hallelujah, are you even listening to me? Why do I have the feeling I am being shucked like an ear of corn? And please do not feel that I am getting too personal with this next question, but why is it that you are so intent on disrobing me when you have not removed a single thread or stitch of your own attire? Surely, if we are to snuggle up on the couch, we should be similarly costumed, or de-costumed.

  “Now, let’s see those soccer muscles,” Glory Hallelujah says, lifting my Christmas sweater from my body and running her hands gently over my shoulders and down my back.

  Of course, there are no soccer muscles anywhere on my body. There are not even Wiffle ball muscles. But Glory Hallelujah does not seem deterred.

  “Mmmm, that’s better. Now, why don’t we lie down on the couch and get comfy.”

  I believe I hear something stirring upstairs. It sounds like a door slamming. Or maybe it’s a footstep. “I think someone’s awake upstairs,” I gasp.

  “That’s just our house shifting in the wind. C’mon, relax. Don’t you want to snuggle up with me?”

  My brain begins making a chain of logical points based on an elemental meteorological observation, whatever that means: it is not a windy night. Therefore, the Great Bonanza Ranch House cannot possibly be shifting in the wind. Hence, the sound I have heard cannot have been produced by the shifting of the house, and must have been generated by someone within the house.

  But, sadly, not only is my brain no longer in control, but it has been stripped of all governing powers and told to go sit in the corner. The other parts of my body that are now running the show are unimpressed by meteorological observations and chains of logic. They do not care a whit for sounds in the night. They are focused on the vision of loveliness who is smiling at me and leading me over to the couch, pulling me along by her hot little hand like a tugboat hauling an ocean liner toward an iceberg.

  “Flee, flee!” my brain is saying. But I lie down on the couch, right on top of something. There is an angry meow, and D.D. the cat hops off, onto the floor. There is another, human meow and Gloria slips onto the couch next to me. “Now,” she purrs, “give me one of those tuba-twanging kisses.”

  Gloria, let me set the record straight. My tuba is actually a giant frog pretending to be a tuba, and I treat it with the utmost respect. We do not kiss. We do not even shake hands. Furthermore, my tuba does not twang. It is not a word used to describe tuba music. Let me also confess at this late moment that I have never kissed a girl before, and I have no idea how to do it. Which may explain why I have just bitten your nose.

  “Ow, you bit me.”

  “Did I? That wasn’t a bite . . . it was a . . . love nip. Gloria, maybe I should leave now . . .”

  “Here, turn your head. That’s it. Wow, I heard that you were a good kisser.”

  Glory Hallelujah, I cannot imagine who you might have heard that from because until this moment no sentient life form upon this planet, whatever that means, from the eagle on high to the plankton floating in the dark ocean depths, has ever allowed my lips to approach within kissing distance. But while you are therefore almost certainly fibbing about my reputation as a good kisser, I do not mind at all. Lying here on this couch kissing you is the high p
oint of my life. The music is nice—though loud; and the lighting is nice—though dim; and you feel very soft and warm and quite wonderful snuggled up next to me, and all would be good in the world if I did not suddenly hear a loud pounding.

  Surely that is my heart. Surely that is the blood pounding through my arteries.

  “GLORIA? GLORIA!”

  Surely that is my innermost soul repeating your lovely name the way the autumn breeze memorializes the summer rose. But why does it sound like the voice of the Bulldozer?

  “GLORIA, ARE YOU DOWN THERE? YOU’D BETTER BE ALONE!”

  Gloria tenses noticeably. “Oh my God, it’s my father. But don’t worry—I locked the door.”

  “GLORIA, DON’T MAKE ME BREAK DOWN THIS DOOR.”

  I try to stand up, to flee, but Gloria is holding me on the couch. “There’s no place to run, John. The garage door only opens by remote control, and I didn’t bring the clicker down with us. But don’t worry, my dad’s full of hot air,” she whispers to me. “He’ll never actually break down the door.” And then she shouts up, “AS IF YOU COULD BREAK IT DOWN! AS IF YOU WOULD DARE!”

  Gloria, in this alarming crisis, it is not in our best interest to provoke your dear father any further. A few gentle and conciliatory words to the older generation might be in order . . .

  “WHY DON’T YOU JUST GO JUMP IN THE LAKE, YOU NITWIT!” she shouts up. “YOU DON’T SCARE ME FOR A SECOND!”

  “GLORIA,” the Bulldozer’s voice thunders from on high. “YOU’D BETTER OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW, AND YOU’D BETTER BE ALONE, OR SO HELP ME, THERE’S GONNA BE A MASSACRE!”

  “YOU FOOL! YOU PIG! YOU BIG, BRUTISH, BULLYING BUFFOON!” Gloria shouts back. “YOU CAN’T CONTROL ME. YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE. GO BACK TO BED AND LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  KA-BAM! There is a crashing sound from atop the stairs. I believe the Bulldozer has just switched into a low gear and thrown his considerable bulk against the door, which has somehow held firm.

  “HAH, I KNEW HE COULDN’T BREAK IT DOWN!” Glory Hallelujah shouts up, seemingly a bit disappointed.

  KA-BAM, KA-BAM. There is a tremendous double impact, and the sound of wood giving way before a human battering ram.

  I suddenly find myself on my feet, looking up at the stairs.

  “Oh my God,” Glory Hallelujah says to me, sounding more than a little bit thrilled, “I think he did it. He really broke down the door!”

  A hulking, vengeful figure appears at the top of the stairs. Now, as you will remember, Gloria turned down the basement light to create a romantic effect, so it is difficult to see all the way up the basement stairs with any clarity. But even in this dim lighting the muscular figure staggering down the stairs is unmistakably Gloria’s father, the Bulldozer. Step by step, he lurches toward us with what I believe was once a doorframe wrapped around his massive shoulders like a gigantic wooden necklace. Halfway down the stairs, I believe, he spots me. Perhaps he even sees that I am shirtless. He stops and stares at me.

  Now, Mr. Hallelujah, sir, Your Bulldozership, please do not think that anything untoward has been going on between me and your little ducky, for whom, let me add, I have the very highest respect. I have remembered your advice, that my basketball game date with your daughter is not a race, and I have done nothing racy. The mere ten-second snuggle that we exchanged can be viewed as an expression of scholarly friendship between two algebra-class desk neighbors. I would also like to point out that we are young and foolish, and that as you no doubt remember from your days as a youthful Bulldozer, occasionally the wheels loosen on their axles, if you know what I mean. But the hour is late, and we are all tired, so I will now be happy to leave if you will just let me by, sir.

  I intend to say this to Gloria’s father, but before I get the words out he reacts much the way the King of the Beasts does when he returns from a trot across the savanna to find that some foolish hyena has blundered into his lair and is imperiling one of his precious lion cubs. Gloria’s father tilts back his leonine head and gives what can only be described as the type of bloodcurdling roar that shakes the entire forest down to the deepest roots of the tallest trees.

  “Oh my God,” Gloria says, “he’s gonna kill you. And there’s no way out. It’s over. You’re dead.”

  In the annals of the Lashasa Palulu, one moment stands out as an example of salvation from near extinction. On one unfortunate day, the entire tribe was surrounded and nearly wiped out in an attack by its most formidable enemies, the giant and invincible cannibal warriors. As the circle of hungry cannibals closed around them, the Lashasa chieftain jumped onto his hands and, clasping his feet together toward the heavens, prayed for darkness. Suddenly, wondrously, magnificently, the sun disappeared in a total eclipse. In the pitch darkness, the Lashasa tribesmen and women were able to scurry around and between and through the legs of the giant cannibals, and escape into the forest.

  I would pray for another such eclipse, but unfortunately I am in an enclosed basement, lit by electricity. Meanwhile, the Bulldozer reaches the bottom of the stairs and heads in my direction, and the look on his enraged face gives me little doubt that he intends to rip the spine from my back vertebra by vertebra.

  Adapting Lashasa Palulu tactics to my current predicament, I grab one of my shoes—which, at Gloria’s urging, I took off and discarded before our ill-fated couch snuggle—jump onto the couch, and, using the couch as a springboard, leap toward the ceiling and take a wild swing at the single, already dimmed, lightbulb.

  There is the sound of breaking glass, and suddenly the basement is plunged into complete and utter darkness. I land in that darkness, crashing down heavily onto something that I believe was once a coffee table, but which will never again hold coffee cups because I have smashed it to smithereens.

  “DON’T THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY FROM ME IN THE DARKNESS, YOU LITTLE WEASEL,” the Bulldozer roars. “I WAS TRAINED FOR JUNGLE NIGHT FIGHTING IN NAM.”

  This is not particularly good news, but I remind myself that we are not in Nam, and that even the Bulldozer cannot see in pitch darkness. I cower behind the couch, keeping perfectly still.

  “Daddy, I’m afraid of the dark,” Glory Hallelujah screeches. “Do something!”

  “I’m gonna do something all right,” the Bulldozer reassures her. He sounds alarmingly close to me. “I’m gonna pulpify that boyfriend of yours.” His footsteps thud only a few feet away. “I’m coming for you, lover boy,” he says. “I hear your heart beating. I can smell your fear.”

  My entire body is now on red-alert emergency status, with my brain firmly back in control. Please do not allow any fear smells to escape, my brain commands my skin. Okay, my skin agrees. We are a team trying to survive here. All smell emission will be curtailed until further notice. The pores of my skin click shut. Heart, stop beating, my brain orders. Find another, quieter way to pump blood. My heart immediately suspends all pumping activity and improvises a new “slow trickle” system of blood irrigation.

  There is a sudden loud pounce in the darkness, less than ten inches from me.

  “There, now I have you by your little throat!” the Bulldozer declares with glee. “What do you have to say now, Romeo?”

  The Bulldozer’s jungle night fighting skills must have deteriorated a bit since Nam, because he in fact does not have me by the throat or any other part of my body. I am still crouched in the darkness, silent, without heartbeat, respiration, or odor emission. I believe he has, in fact, grabbed D.D. the cat, who squeals in terror and tries to escape from his grasp by biting his hand.

  “AAAH, I’VE BEEN CAT-BIT!” the Bulldozer roars. “I’ll turn that stinking feline into a scarf!”

  “If you hurt my little D.D. I’ll call the police,” Gloria cries out with admirable but, in my humble opinion, slightly misplaced compassion.

  A furry missile brushes by me as it hurtles toward a corner of the basement that I have not had a chance to explore. D.D. has evidently decided not to stick around and tempt fate.

  I have always belie
ved that in matters of survival humans have much to learn from their animal friends. If, for example, you are on a ship and you suddenly see rats leaping off into the water, I believe it is an early warning sign that the ship may be on fire and it is time to begin searching for a life raft. Now, it is true that a life raft will do me little good in my present predicament, but this basement is D.D.’s domain, so to speak, and it occurs to me that when faced with the prospect of being turned into an item of winter clothing, Gloria’s cat will head for the nearest exit.

  I follow in D.D.’s scurrying paw steps.

  A new voice floats down from upstairs. I believe I hear the dulcet tones of Mrs. Hallelujah. She is no longer pondering Debussy and Mallarmé. In fact, she sounds alarmed. “What’s going on down there?” she asks. “I called the police. They’re on their way. They’re sending two squad cars.”

  “Good work, honey,” the Bulldozer shouts up to her. “Now get a flashlight.”

  “In a jiffy,” she says. “There’s one in the kitchen.”

  D.D. and I are now hiding in a far corner of the basement. He is trying to get around a carton that has been wedged against a wall. I move it for him. Without even a thank-you, he disappears through a tiny opening at the base of the wall. I bend down and feel the opening with my hands. It is what I believe is called a pet door—a small swinging door which allows small animals to enter and exit. Unfortunately, I am not a small animal.

  “Here’s the flashlight!” Mrs. Hallelujah sings out from the top of the stairs.

  “Great, honey,” the Bulldozer says, and I hear his footsteps climbing up to meet her.

  A flashlight beam suddenly pierces the darkness. The Bulldozer first sweeps it around in the vicinity of the couch. Then his search expands outward to the more distant corners of the basement.

  I will be discovered any second.

  I get down on my knees and then on my stomach, and attempt to wiggle out through the pet door. Sadly, my skull is wider than the little doorway, to say nothing of my shoulders and hips.