by Sachs, Zané
Personally, I’m glad the dude is occupied, so he won’t notice me. But, even if he’s busy monitoring Wendy rather than the store, the cameras keep recording. I’m pretty sure I’m safe. He won’t watch hours of nothing happening. A missing ear of corn will never be detected, and swiping a tub of fake butter is hardly a felony, but lifting a bottle of sleep aids might be noted, and in hindsight a missing bottle could be used as evidence. Receipts can be traced; I learned that from CSI.
Walking the aisles of Pharmacy, I condition bottles and boxes of various over-the-counter drugs, so I look like I’m doing my job. Conditioning involves pulling items forward, at least two deep, and lining them up for a waterfall effect. I zero-in on a bottle of Unisom Maximum Strength SleepGels. Turning my back to the camera, I slip the box into my apron.
Check my phone.
Time to meet Ranger.
Terri stands behind the Customer Service counter typing entries into a computer.
“I’m outta here,” I say as I punch my code into the time clock.
Without looking up, she says, “You got the bathrooms?”
“Yeah.”
“And the trash?”
“Uh-huh,” I lie. I forgot about the trash.
After clocking out, I pick up a jar of cranberry juice. It takes me a while to find it, since they moved juice from Aisle 6 to Aisle 4, plus I got sidetracked because several people asked me where to find spaghetti sauce, pickles, croutons. I choose the store brand juice, so my purchase qualifies for the employee discount, and pay for it at self-checkout. I always use self-checkout. Interacting with human checkers requires more effort.
Then I head to the break room, glad to find it empty. I close the door. ME TV is on the new flat screen TV we got as part of the remodel. An ancient episode of I Dream of Jeannie competes with Elvis Costello singing “Allison” over the intercom. I open the jar of juice, take a few gulps, then dump about half of it into the sink. I’ll spring for vodka at the liquor store. It’s an investment, but Ranger will be worth it. I sit at the table where we eat lunch, push someone’s forgotten container of chicken bones out of the way, and notice the latest Gazette. My hand shakes when I pick up the newspaper. A photograph of Justus stares at me from the front page. If I actually read the article and learn the details of his death, chances are I’ll go into convulsions. I set the paper at the far end of the table, cover his face with chicken bones.
My hands tremble so badly, I have trouble opening the Unisom. I dump about a dozen SleepGels onto the table. Using the box cutter they gave me when I worked in Produce, I slice into a pill and nearly cut myself. I breathe deeply, forcing myself to focus on the task, and squeeze the gelcap’s contents into the jar of cranberry juice. I repeat the process fourteen times.
The door opens, and I quickly slip the bottle of Unisom into my apron.
“I thought you left a while ago,” Terri says.
“Just collecting my stuff.” I point to the half-empty jar of cranberry juice. “Needed to hydrate before riding home.”
She sits across from me, pushes aside the container of chicken bones, and picks up the newspaper.
“So weird about Justus,” she says. “I can’t believe it.”
“Heart attack?”
“No. Says here, ‘possibly an accident.’”
“What does that mean, possibly?”
Terri reads aloud, “‘Police continue to investigate.’” She glances at me. “You look flushed. Are you all right?”
“Just tired.”
Preparing to leave, I reach for my helmet.
Nose back in the paper, Terri mumbles, “Guess they’ll be looking for a new Assistant Manager.”
“You applying?” I ask.
“Hadn’t thought about it. Maybe.”
I strap on my helmet, thinking about how I’d like to take this jar of cranberry juice and smash Terri’s head. But that would put a damper on my plans.
“So,” I say, “what, exactly, are the cops investigating?”
“The cause of the accident. It may have been a hit and run, or even intentional. Says here, ‘Police are canvassing the neighborhood for possible witnesses.’” Her eyes meet mine, and the contents of my stomach lurches back into my mouth. To keep it down, I take a swig of juice. “You live on River Road, don’t you, Sadie?”
The river runs behind the supermarket, just across the road. At night, the road is dark and there’s hardly any traffic. The city owns the strip of land along the river, so there are no buildings here—just scrub oak, sage, and brush. A steep path runs down the hill, leading to the picnic table where I wait for Ranger, earbuds plugged into my phone, listening to Imagine Dragons, one of my favorite bands; I love “Demons” and “Radioactive.”
“Over here.”
I wave the jar of cranberry juice as Ranger makes his way along the path. No moon tonight, but there’s a haze of light from the supermarket. I’ve been taking nips of cranberry juice and vodka, and the diphenhydrAMINE (the active ingredient in Unisom) has started to kick in. I’m having a bit of trouble keeping my eyes open, and some difficulty focusing. For example, when Ranger arrives at the picnic table and sits next to me, I know he’s real, but when I look at his face, then glance away, I see trails—like he’s a ghost.
He removes the jar from my hands, downs a hefty slug and wipes his mouth.
“Tastes strange. What’s in it?”
“Vodka and cranberry. Drink. You need to catch up.”
He takes another gulp, and so do I.
We sit, listening to the river.
He tries to plant his lips on mine, but kissing feels too personal, so I avert my face.
“You feeling it?” I ask.
“Feeling what?”
I think he’s worried. He thinks I want him to say, I love you, or some other shit.
“It,” I say. “Are you feeling it?”
I clamp my hand over his crotch, squeeze his bulge.
My plan is working.
“Drink up, Ranger.”
Even in my stupor, I can tell the drug is having an effect on him. His eyes are half-closed. They reopen when I drag down his zipper with my teeth, open wider when I take him into my mouth. There’s a medicinal taste in the back of my throat and I try to get rid of it by sucking him in deeper.
Stroking the base of his cock, I move up and down, careful not to scrape him with my teeth. With the other hand, I cup his balls, feel them tighten. He tastes like salt and smells of musk.
He’s groaning, and I’m afraid he’s gonna come too soon.
“Don’t stop, Sadie.”
“Be right back.”
I remove my yellow My Job is to Serve You shirt, yanking it, so the collar rips. (Earlier, I helped the rip along with a nick from my box cutter.) Then I tear off my bra. Ranger reaches for me, and my nipples tense. Leaning toward him, I press my tits around his cock. I’ve got his full attention now.
“You like this, Dick?”
“My name is Ranger.”
“You’re the Lone Ranger, aren’t you, Dick?”
He moans.
“Any family?”
“My folks live in Albuquerque. You?”
“My dad’s in Phoenix. I guess we’re both loners here.”
I lick his hardtop. His body arches backward, elbows pressed into the picnic table as he comes. A fountain of jism spurts all over me: my chest, my face, my hair. I make sure it hits my shirt, so I won’t lose any evidence.
Sweat is pouring down his face.
He’s groaning, but not with pleasure. He bends forward, clasping his head with his hands.
“I don’t feel too good, Sadie.”
“You need another drink.”
He takes a few gulps, his eyes closed, his face flushed.
“I think I should go home.”
“We’re just getting started. I’ll play some music.” I plug my phone into his ears and blast “Blurred Lines.”
“That song is sick, Sadie.”
“
That song is awesome, Dick.”
He tries to stand, loses his equilibrium, plunks down on the bench.
“I gotta go now,” he says, slurring. “I reaaally gotta go.”
He stands again, his body swaying.
“Turn around,” I order him.
When he doesn’t move, I grab his shoulders, forcing him to turn. He’s so blasted, it’s easy to make him bend over the picnic table. I pull his shorts down to his ankles.
“What are you doing?”
“Blurred lines.”
I slap his butt.
He attempts to turn toward me, but the shorts strangle his ankles and make him stumble.
He’s loose as a ragdoll, my puppet. I turn him back toward the table, make him step out of the shorts.
“Spread your legs.”
I shove my hands between his thighs, prying them apart.
His torso dives forward and his head clunks on the table. It’s difficult to keep him upright, but the bench acts as support. His butt juts toward me, and I admire its smooth surface.
I reach into my apron pocket and pull out the cob of corn. It’s already buttered. With one hand, I spread his cheeks, with the other I jab the cob. The hole is tight. Glad I brought the imitation butter, I scoop a handful and work one finger, then two, then three, inside of him.
My fist wakes him up.
When he yells, I pull out the box cutter and nick his balls—just enough to silence him.
“Keep yelling and your balls are history.”
He retches, tries to shake me off.
Adrenaline courses through my body, gives me superhuman strength. With one hand, I hold the box cutter against his flaccid cock, while my other hand rams the corncob up his ass. I perform this feat with amazing dexterity, my practice paying off.
He’s quiet now, his head glued to the table, glasses crushed and lying in a pool of vomit, the corncob slick with blood and shit.
I need to get rid of evidence pointing to his rape, but if I throw the cob in the river it will float, and if I bury it some animal may dig it up.
“Ranger.” I tap him on the shoulder. “Ranger, you awake?”
No answer.
I attempt to lift him by the shoulders, but he’s dead weight. Lying on the bench, I wriggle my feet under him and try to flip him over. His eyelashes flutter. I grab his hair, jerk up his head, and his mouth flops open. I shove the cob between his lips.
“Eat it.”
Mechanically, he bites, then spits kernels onto the table.
I grab the cob, forcing it back into his mouth.
“Chew.”
A jab from my box cutter encourages him.
“Swallow.”
I turn the cob methodically, forcing him to eat every kernel.
When he’s done, I let him sleep.
I take the cob down to the river, let the water wash it clean. Cars pass on the main road, but no one comes down here.
I feel at peace.
But I still have work to do.
I have to make this look good.
I pull my pants down around my ankles, squat on the bank, listening to the rush of water as I shove the cob into my cunt, sliding it in and out until I come, so hard that my eyes fill with tears. Then I sit on the corn, forcing the cob into my butt.
I’m bleeding, crying.
Perfect.
I wipe myself with the yellow shirt and pull up my pants.
For a long time, I stare at the river, watching how the water jumps around the rocks and keeps going.
Ranger is snoring.
I find the box cutter and run it over my chest. Not too deep, just enough to draw blood so it drips onto the table. I take Ranger’s hand and press his fingers around the box cutter, making sure to leave a clear print.
Then I call 911.
Recipe: Rockin’ Rocky Mountain Oysters
What are Rocky Mountain oysters? Testicles. Usually the testicles of young bulls, but you can use whatever balls you have on hand, or in hand as the case may be: sheep, lamb, turkey, whomever—keep in mind the younger the testicles the more tender the oysters. Soak the balls in water, peel, and wash. In the olden days, cowboys sat around a campfire and tossed the testicles onto a hot griddle, cooking the balls until they exploded.
Warning: Many cultures say eating genitalia has an aphrodisiac effect, so these oysters may make you horny.
Rocky Mountain Oysters
Ingredients:
2 pounds of testicles
6-pack of your favorite beer (2 cans for soaking, 4 to drink)
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup flour
¼ cup corn meal
Milk
Salt
Pepper
Garlic powder
Canola Oil (or whatever fat you have on hand)
1 tablespoon hot sauce
Preparation:
If you have time, freeze the testicles—it’s easy to peel them as they thaw. If they’re fresh, you’ll need a sharp knife to cut off the tough muscle. After the balls are peeled, toss them into a bowl of beer for two hours.
Add vinegar into a pot of boiling water. Parboil balls for a few minutes, drain, rinse.
While the oysters cool, mix together eggs, flour, cornmeal, salt, pepper, garlic powder. Season oysters with salt and pepper. Roll each oyster in the flour mixture, dunk into milk, then back into flour mixture. For a thicker crust, repeat.
Heat oil in a large pot, add hot sauce. Fry oysters until golden. Drain on paper towels. May be served with hot sauce, cocktail sauce, tartar sauce, or whatever you enjoy.
The Quiet Lady
I’m not a victim, I’m a survivor. That’s what the trauma counselor told me when I went through the exam. They collected evidence for a rape kit, treated me for STDs and injuries, even drew blood to test for date rape drugs. I wonder if Unisom qualifies. In any case, there’s enough evidence to convict Ranger, no matter what he claims.
But he doesn’t remember much.
Out of the goodness of my heart, I didn’t press charges. The district attorney is disappointed. There’s not much she can do without me, because Ranger has no priors and there are no witnesses. I told her I’m not pressing charges, because I was horny and wanted to get laid. She says I’m suffering from shock.
In any case, Ranger will never stand me up again.
As a new employee, he was on probation for three months. Due to this incident, they fired him. It’s a small town, so I don’t think he’ll find another job. Around here a rapist stands out. I heard he’s returning to Albuquerque. They have lots of rapists there.
My one regret: not killing him.
Meanwhile, I’m laying low, spending time alone. I get enough of people at work, so on my days off I usually hunker down with a good book. (Right now I’m reading several, including The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle and Dark Nights of the Soul by Thomas Moore.) When I’m too tired to read, I stream shows on my smart TV. Breaking Bad is my favorite. Walter White experienced a dark night of the soul, don’t you think? But he managed to get out of it. At heart, I’m a scientist like Walt; I like to experiment. Cooking is chemistry. I’ve thought about following Walt aka Heisenberg’s example and becoming a meth cook, but there’s a lot of competition in that field. I think robotics is a better option.
Like I said, I spend a lot of time alone, thinking. But lately I’ve been hearing from people I haven’t seen for a long time. The story of my rape made the Gazette. People I haven’t heard from for a million years call to see if I’m okay—really, they want to hear the juicy details.
That’s why I’m here at The Quiet Lady Tavern, waiting for Krista and Tracy. We used to hang out together before I got the job at the supermarket. I ran into Krista on the street. She volunteers at Safe Haven for Women, and she insisted that the three of us go out for happy hour. I happen to have two days off (Friday and Saturday—a rarity), and she caught me off guard, so I agreed to meet them. This morning I almost cancelled, then I decided going out would make
me seem normal. I mean, that’s what normal women do when they’ve been traumatized; they hang out with girlfriends, don’t they?
I don’t know.
Lately I feel removed from the human race. I feel like I need to wipe my hard drive clean and reboot. I think Sadie the Sadist has been tinkering with my programming while I sleep.
Anyway, thanks to Krista and Tracy, I’m sitting in a dim corner of The Quiet Lady, tapping my fingers on this table set beside a potted palm, when I realize: the cops took my fingerprints. My knee starts shaking and I order it to stop. The police told me the fingerprints were strictly for elimination purposes. But having my prints in the system means next time I’ll have to be more careful.
I take a hefty gulp of the house red I ordered. Tastes like acid. I gaze into the wine. Looks like blood. I set down the glass, careful to place it in the center of the cocktail napkin, a challenge because now my hand is trembling. My knee shakes so hard it slams into the table. I check my phone. No calls. No texts. Krista and Tracy should be here any minute. I arrived early, hoping to get this spot. From where I sit, I can see the entrance, the bar and all the other tables. The potted palm provides a barrier, making me feel safe. To calm my nerves, I pop a Dilaudid (left over from the thumb accident) and peer into the vial. Still about a dozen pills, no refills. Maybe I should see that shrink again. After the rape, they had me talk to someone at Safe Haven. Maybe, if I ask her, she’ll write me a prescription for something really good. She said I’m suffering from post-traumatic-stress disorder, that’s why I’m so jittery.
Sometimes I wonder if I really was raped.
I take another sip of wine. Pick up the menu, try to read the shaking words, and set it down.
I remind myself to breathe. That helps a bit.
I think women make me nervous. They tend to talk too much. If I get another shrink, I want a man. Men don’t talk.
