Bad Habits

by Jim Dayton

  Getting the bike home was going to be the first obstacle. I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in over twenty years. I decided to get some pointers from Jack, the Johnson County Sherriff that lived across the street. His Harley took the space in his garage normally reserved for his SUV. Jack had the right priorities. I knew he wouldn’t mind taking a break from his yard work to talk about my new acquisition.

  “Really, I didn’t think Lauren would let you get a bike.” He chuckled under his breath.

  “I guess I wore her down.”

  His instruction was quick and painful. He took every opportunity to point out that I may be in over my head with this bike and might have considered something for a less experienced rider.

  “I took my opportunity when I could get it,” was my only answer.

  “Why don’t you take a class or something?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t ridden before. It’s just been a while.”

  I kept hoping he would offer up his bike for a quick refresher ride, but I knew it wasn’t likely. He let this bike take the place of his car in the garage for Christ’s sake.

  “Have you gotten your license yet?” His cop voice kicked in.

  “I’m going tomorrow.”

  “Make sure you pass the test. I know where you live.” He tried to smile and laugh, but that’s always difficult when you aren’t joking.

  “Thanks, Jack” I smiled and waved as I walked down his driveway.

  Lauren was waiting in the house with her final roadblock. “I’m not taking you over to pick up your motorcycle.”

  “Listen, I’ve wanted this since I was a kid and now, when I’m this close, you’re going to take that dream away from me.” My dramatics were a last resort.

  “Yes. Call Doug or Scott. They can take you, but I’m not going to.”

  “This is stupid. Why can’t you just be okay with this?”

  “You can’t take the kids on it. And I’m definitely not getting on that thing.” She struck her most cross pose.

  “Fine.” I pulled my cell out of my pocket and started dialing.

  Two numbers in, she stopped me. “I’ll take you.”

  “No. No. I don’t want to put you out.” I continued dialing.

  “You’re an ass.” She turned to get the kids.

  The silence in the car was unbearable. This was supposed to be a good thing. I was realizing one of my childhood dreams. I knew I wasn’t going to be an astronaut. I knew I wasn’t going to be a rock star. But I was going to own a motorcycle. I was going to have at least fifteen minutes of every pleasant day to ride, to be in my own head and relax. This was not something I merely wanted. It was something I absolutely had to have. I was addicted to the idea that in a matter of minutes I would have a few moments of freedom every now and again. Lauren was right. At this moment, I was a selfish ass.

  * * *

  As I stood over the 1976 Harley and pulled on my helmet, I remembered all the fights Lauren and I used to have over the bike. It made me smile. It only took two weeks of pouting before she was caught pretending to ride. It validated everything I told her about owning a motorcycle, and forced her to acknowledge it was just like having a third car. Granted, it was a car that only I could drive and she still wouldn’t allow Sam or Martha anywhere near it.

  We’d agreed on an hour every Sunday morning be allocated as my time to ride, and every Sunday morning I envisioned the neighbors waking up to the rumble of my bike. Truth is they were probably in church, or at their kids’ soccer games and dance recitals. The neighborhood was the perfect image of suburbia and we were all trapped in it one way or another. We’d either grown up here and didn’t know any different or we wanted our kids to grow up here so that they never knew any different. Nothing was ever that bad or that magnificent. It was nice and calm, the epitome of serene.

  I backed the bike out of the garage and turned out onto the street. One stop sign away from the house and I could feel the bullshit falling away. I took a deep breath sat back and watched the manicured lawns fly by. The constant rumble of the bike and the air biting at my face kept me in my stupor for the full hour. I was twenty miles from the house when I looked at my watch and realized how pissed Lauren was going to be that I was late.

  I remembered her saying as I walked out the door, “Jason, you need to be back in an hour. My parents want us to come over for brunch and you’ll want to take a shower before we leave.”

  I was fucked.

  I immediately started to contrive excuses. For the next twenty miles, all I figured out was I had nothing. I hung my head as I pulled into the driveway. I parked the bike as quickly as I could and slammed my helmet down on the seat. I never noticed the door from the garage into the house was open. I just breezed through it.

  I woke up on the kitchen floor in a warm puddle of Lauren’s blood. Two feet away she laid face down. I slid over to her, still confused by what I was seeing. I turned her over and her head fell back exposing her throat, sliced open deep enough that I could see what I thought were her tonsils. I tried to scream, but, like my excuses, I had nothing. I could feel tears rolling down my face, I could hear slight whimpers and sounds that I didn’t know I could make. I slipped and fell twice trying to get to the phone. Blood splashed against the oak cabinets and I smeared it all over the granite countertops.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  I screamed into the phone, “She’s dead! Get someone here, now! She’s bleeding!”

  “Sir, calm down. Where are you?”

  “14563 W. 92nd Terrace. She’s dead!” I dropped the phone and continued to scream.

  In seconds Jack was standing over me. “What happened, Jason? Jason!”

  “Jack, I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  * * *

  We sat there in silence for what seemed like hours. I felt like I’d been kicked repeatedly in the chest. I put my head down on the cheap table in the interrogation room and tried to make sense of what had happened. I could feel Jack’s hand wrapped around my arm as he pulled me out of my house. In the corner of my eye I saw the strobes of the cruisers. Yellow tape quickly enveloped my house and men with small brushes and black lights picked through my house only to walk out and tell me that my wife and children had been meticulously slaughtered. I fell to the street sobbing. And that’s how I stayed until Jack led me into this sterile little room.

  “We just need to get your statement, Jason,” Jack said in his cop voice.

  “My family’s dead.”

  “There’s more to it. I have to ask, what were you doing this morning?”

  “What I do every Sunday morning. Fuck, Jack, you know I take out the bike for an hour.” I was starting to get offended.

  “I know, I know. So, you went for a ride? What happened when you came home?”

  “I was in a shit-ton of trouble because I was late. We were going to have brunch with Lauren’s folks.” As soon as I said her name my throat began to close.

  “She was pissed when you got home late?”

  “She was dead when I got home late.”

  “Was there anybody in the house?”

  “I don’t know. I slipped in her blood and hit the kitchen floor hard. By the time I figured out where I was, I was laying next to her.” My head began to spin.

  “So, you blacked out? How long?”

  “I didn’t fucking kill her, Jack! You know I didn’t fucking kill her!” I screamed.

  * * *

  I remained the prime suspect through the funerals and the months of news coverage. Everyone from NBC to CNN interviewed Lauren’s family, and they all said the same thing, “I always had a feeling that Jason might be violent.”

  They knew damn well what they were saying was insane. So, I stopped watching TV. I sold all of them with the house. I was through watching myself being kicked around in the press. My lawyer advised me to keep my mouth shut, and that’s exactly what I did. I refused all interviews, even from the police. And the second I stopped cooperating I
became a monster. The community I’d given my life to now saw me as a homicidal maniac. Mothers and children either changed direction when I walked their way or, the brave few, cursed me under their breath as I passed. The men would purposefully run into me hoping to start a fight. They looked for an opportunity to beat me to death and become the hero-protector of suburbia. It was disgusting.

  When it became too much to bear and the District Attorney finally admitted there was no evidence to arrest me. I decided to move. I packed one bag of clothes and left the rest. I headed north. It was only three miles out of Overland Park that I decided I was no longer Jason Showalter. I was Casper Edwards.

  * * *

  Jack looked like the county had only enough money to pay for him to drive the nine hours to find me.

  “Megan!” I motioned for her. She was every bit of nineteen going on twenty-one, young, tight and what every asshole in my bar wanted to take in to the VIP room.

  She sauntered over and put her arm around me, “What can I do for you Mr. Edwards?”

  “I like the way you say that. It makes my dick hard.” I kissed her on the neck and ran my hand across her ass. “See that cop over there?” I pointed Jack out.

  “He doesn’t look like a cop.”

  “He’s here to arrest me, dear.”

  Megan’s hand clinched my shoulder. “Now what would he do that for?”

  “Why don’t you go ask him, and make sure he understands that his drinks are on me.” I smiled and took a long drink of my bourbon and seven.

  I watched Megan as she tried to cuddle up to Jack. I could tell it was making him uncomfortable and I loved every minute of it. When the complimentary drinks slid across the bar, Jack immediately turned to Megan who was quick to point me out. I waved.

  “So, Mr. Edwards?” Jack asked as he walked up to my booth.

  “I’m just trying to start a new life, without the press banging down my door. Shit, Jack, it’d be bad for business.”

  “You know we found some new evidence?” Jack didn’t want to be in my bar any longer than he had to.

  “Really? Good news or bad news?” I laughed.

  “Is Casper Edwards really how you wanted to turn out, Jason?” He pulled his handcuffs from his belt.

  “Damn right.” The cuffs were cold and extremely uncomfortable.

  No one in the place even noticed the owner was being taken out, and I was happy. It meant the girls were doing their job.

  As Jack pulled out of the parking lot, he looked back and asked, “Why’d you do it?”

  “Become Casper?” I asked back.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “The winter before I turned four, my dad decided he was going to toughen me up. In all his wisdom, he thought the best way to do this was to force me to carry rusty old sled a block to Suicide Hill. You know, the kind of crappy sled that has the sharp blades?”

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  About the author:

  I'm a reluctant suburbanite who loves to tell stories. I'm not fond of lying, but I'm getting pretty good at it. Writing allows me to lie to everyone with no consequences. It also allows me to indulge the parts of my sense of humor that most people don’t find funny. I've written some books. I am Twisted Jim.

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