Peeler

by Rollo, Gord

  Lucius took a full thirty seconds considering his next words, their eyes locked as unspoken truths passed between them, secrets Randy had taken great care to keep buried and in the past. Exposed now, Randy had nothing left to say. Lucius would either help him or send him on his way. At that exact second, he didn’t care which.

  “Okay, little man,” Lucius said. “Not right now, though. Meet me here tomorrow at the same time…after lunch, and I’ll tell you everything I know. I just wonder if it’ll be enough for you to drop this? Maybe… maybe not.”

  The overweight magician winked at Randy, and then walked away.

  ***

  That night, Randy dreamed of things he’d long tried to forget. Not all bad things, at first, mostly snippets of his childhood back in Buffalo, New York: playing war in the attic with his older brother, Tim, or playing smash-up derby by himself with his Tonka trucks or lighting firecrackers behind his friend Tommy Cranston’s garage. Basically harmless memories, a jumbled assortment of harmless kid stuff, but then the dream took a quick turn, a downward spiral into the dark painful places Randy had hoped never to visit again yet here he was. Even in the midst of sleep, part of him was aware he had no one to blame but himself. He should have known better. Should have let sleeping dogs lie.

  Dogs…

  Dog, actually. Just one.

  That’s where it had started. With Mickey – Randy’s first (and only) pet. Mickey was a purebred Golden Lab but was small and frail for his breed, obviously the runt of the litter. Randy, who was rather small and skinny himself, had loved him from day one. They were best friends really, inseparable, and Randy trusted that damn mutt even more than his own brother, which was why it was Mickey that Randy confided in when his stepfather started sexually molesting him at the age of ten.

  Randy’s real father had died of colon cancer in September of 1975 and his mother had went through a string of failures trying to replace him. By the Summer of 1979, a man by the name of Bob Tasker shared her bedroom and took on the mantle of “dad” to Randy and Tim. Tasker was an accountant and a real clean cut, spit and polished kind of man. He wore a suit and tie to work everyday, his shoes were always shiny, and he smiled and waved to nearly everyone he’d meet. To the outside world it appeared that Randy’s mom had made quite the catch, but the darkest secrets always seem to be hidden in unlikely places. Bob Tasker was a pedophile. Mind you, Randy’s mom had no idea about that and obviously neither did Randy. At ten, he wouldn’t have even known what that word meant. Unfortunately, he soon would.

  Mickey was only a pup back then, and one or two nights a week Randy would huddle in bed with his friend, crying himself to sleep and wondering what he had done so wrong that his new dad always had to sneak in and hurt him. Randy had considered going to his mother for help, or to Tim, but he was pretty sure they were getting their share of hurt too. This went on for nearly four years, until the month before Randy was turning fourteenth. He was still a small kid, and not nearly strong enough to fight his own battles.

  So Mickey had fought it for him.

  Tried to anyway. Randy’s stepfather had wandered in drunker than usual and was having trouble getting his “equipment” to work the way he wanted. Mad as hell, he’d started hitting Randy, probably convincing himself it had to be the boy’s fault. All Randy saw was a flash of fur and bared teeth, and felt a sharp hot pain in his left hand, the one he’d been hiding his face behind, warding off his step dad’s fist. Mickey had jumped into the fight to protect Randy but had accidentally nipped his master’s hand in the frenzy. Tasker had viciously swatted Mickey off the bed and given him a solid kick in the ribs for interrupting his fun and games, and while the dog had limped into the corner to cower in the dark, he’d turned his attention back to Randy, pulling back his hand to strike him yet again.

  That was when they’d both noticed the blood.

  Mickey had cut Randy’s hand, his sharp canine teeth catching him in the meaty part below his thumb and drawing a thin line down toward his left wrist. There wasn’t a lot of blood, wasn’t squirting out or anything like that, but there was enough that it pooled into the palm of Randy’s hand and dripped down onto his torn pajamas. The sight of his injured hand stopped his stepfather cold, the look of superiority vanishing from his drunken face to be replaced by fear. Don’t tell your mother, was all he’d said to Randy that night, and had left without another word. He would return many times in the next year that he lived with them, but Randy had found his weak spot and after some trial and error realized he could frighten his pathetic new dad by keeping a carpet knife handy and cut himself on the arm or his belly whenever he tried to enter his bedroom. It was crazy, but having that knife made Randy finally feel in control of his life, finally gave him a medium to control his own destiny. The blade made him sting, sure, but it also felt good, the temporary pain more than justified by the freedom and control it gave him.

  Tasker eventually left their home but his five year stay with their family had messed young Randy up considerably. He started drinking, of course. He also started doing drugs. Nothing was in moderation with Randy; everything had to be to the extreme. For a while, the booze and drugs numbed the pain, kept him in check, but through it all he still needed the knife. Still needed those razor thin doorways opened on his skin whenever he felt life slipping out of control or the pressure to fit in building. It made no sense, but to Randy, the cuts healed him, the blood washing away his fears. Right or wrong, self-abuse was the only solution he knew. He didn’t dare trust his pain to anyone else. Anxiety, depression, and a rock bottom sense of self-esteem can do that to a teenage kid. A hell of a way to live but even back then, Randy had been smart enough to know he needed to get his head screwed on straight, to somehow, someway, stop hurting himself or one night he would cut himself in the wrong place or just that little bit too deep, and there would be no way to stop the bleeding.

  As strange as it might seem, cooking had been Randy’s salvation and to this day he’d have a hard time explaining why, even to himself. Being a chef might seem lame to most people, but he didn’t care. Addicts take comfort where they can find it, and carving up a rack of lamb was a hell of a lot healthier than cutting himself. There was probably more to it than that, but then again, maybe it truly was as simple as that. Who knows? There was just something wonderful about the tastes and aromas and endless possibilities that the kitchen held for him, and learning to cook became an addiction in itself, a healthy way to turn his already obsessive-compulsive personality into something useful, rather than destructive. Things had improved dramatically for Randy after that. The future was actually looking good for a change.

  Of course, Randy would wake up in the morning to realize that no matter how much he hoped and prayed his problems were left in the past, the worst addictions didn’t let go of a person quite that easy. No, most held on for life.

  ***

  “You look like shit, my friend,” Lucius Barber said. “Bad night?”

  Randy was back in the in-patient recreation center, meeting with the grey haired magician as planned, standing at the same big window they’d talked beside yesterday. Randy probably did look terrible. He sure felt that way anyway, having not had a very restful sleep. He’d had bad dreams all night and had woken up several times sweating heavily in the grip of panic attacks, just like the good old days. Even now, in broad daylight, Randy felt feverish and a little shaky. His only hope was Lucius didn’t ask to see his stomach again. He didn’t want him to start asking questions about the fresh cut hidden underneath his shirt. It was only a tiny cut, a mere slice, but he still felt like a total idiot and failure for doing it. Even as the blade kissed his skin he’d been screaming in his head to stop, but his hand wouldn’t listen. The urge to cut himself was too strong, just like back in the really bad days.

  “Something like that, yeah. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Oh… okay,” Lucius said, smiling as he looked his curious new friend up and down. Randy wondered if he could
see the outline of the Band-Aid near his belly button beneath the thin grey cloth, but didn’t dare look down to check.

  “I’m here to talk about Peeler, not me.”

  “Sure. But you know I don’t have all the answers you’re looking for. All I can do is tell you what happened to him and why I think he’s doing what he does. If I tell you that, will you promise to drop this shit?”

  “Deal. I just feel if I know him a little better it might help me understand some of the stupid things I do… I mean did, you know, back when I was younger.”

  “Of course. A bit warped, but what the fuck do I care. I think I see the logic in it. Whatever floats your boat, right?”

  “Right. So tell me why he does it?”

  “Easy. He’s insane. Right out of his tree, but he doesn’t seem to know that. He thinks he has this all figured out.”

  “All what?”

  “Life. Death. The Afterlife. You name it. He thinks he’s found a way to beat the system, Randy. Thinks that if he can peel off all his skin he’ll live forever.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Exactly, but that doesn’t make it any less true. It’s what he believes. Look… I don’t know why you did the things you did to yourself, and I don’t give a shit. The point is you had your reasons and I’m willing to bet it happened over a long time. Something or someone fucked you up and the pain or humiliation, or anger found its own outlet. You never chose to do it; you just ended up with an itch and a knife to scratch it with. Sound about right?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Well, Peeler wasn’t like that. Most self-mutilators have a story somewhat like yours… a rage and shame combo that secretly brews for years, but according to Peeler he found his calling all in one glorious day of pain and suffering. Lost most of his skin and probably most of his mind all in a oner!”

  “Really? What happened?”

  Lucius paused to look around the room, making sure no one was listening. Not that anyone was likely to care what they talked about. The rec center was fairly full today but everyone was busy visiting friends and family or doing their own thing and no one seemed to give a damn about them.

  “Yesterday I told you Peeler wasn’t a magician, right? He was a fanboy. Had been for years. Well, it was that obsession that screwed him in the end. Like most people, he was a big fan of David Copperfield, even though the boys I trained were way the fuck better. Ever heard of their magic show, Fire and Ice?”

  Randy just shrugged his shoulders. “Magic was never my thing, sorry.”

  “Well anyway… Peeler liked Copperfield and there was this magic coin trick he saw David do one night on television that Peeler wanted to learn. It was child’s play, really, something simple done with a close up audience that tricked the eyes and looked more impressive than it really was. The trick involved some simple sleight of hand, but the secret lay in the fact he used two coins, not just the one, but nobody in the audience, nor Peeler at home, knew that and presumed Copperfield had worked real magic right in front of their eyes. Textbook shit any decent magician could pull off, but for weeks after that show, Peeler tried to figure it out, carrying his lucky silver dollar coin around with him day and night. He was clueless, basically.

  “One day at work… I told you he worked in a chemical plant, right? Some kind of fertilizer company? Peeler was a technician of some sort, a lab rat, used to take samples from these huge chemical vats to make sure they had their ingredients mixed right, I guess. Anyway, one day he’s standing on a catwalk over this chemical soup buggering around with his lucky coin when we should have been paying attention. Long story short, he loses his balance and falls into the stainless steel vat. It’s deep too, he ends up practically fucking swimming and whatever is in there it’s nasty shit. Corrosive as fuck and it starts eating the clothes and skin off everything it touches.”

  “Oh my God!” Randy said. “That’s horrible!”

  “I’ll say. It takes a while for them to get him out too. He’s down there, screaming and bleeding out from the chest down. The chemicals end up burning the cock and balls right off the poor bastard and practically skin him below the nipples before he gets dragged out, but get this… he wants back in. You believe that shit? His co-workers had to restrain the crazy prick or he’d have hopped right back inside!”

  “Jesus! Why?”

  “I don’t know. This is where his story gets really fucked up. According to Peeler, when he was down there being eaten alive, he saw something in the refection on the stainless steel wall of the vat. Like a mirror, you know? Something incredible that opened his eyes and finally let him see the light or some such bull. It was spiritual for him; a religious awakening he said, that changed him instantly. If you ask me, his brain was probably short-circuiting from the trauma and pain, frying some of his common sense, but he says he saw a doorway open up, I don’t know…an exit from this shitty world, and the more his skin dissolved into that chemical soup, the more the doorway swung open.”

  “And that’s why he wants the rest of his skin peeled off? He thinks if he completes the job the chemicals started, this magical doorway will appear again?”

  “That’s right. He’s convinced himself that he was supposed to go through that door that day, and his co-workers denied him his destiny. Never mind that they saved his bloody life!”

  “What does he think is through this mirrored doorway?”

  “Who knows, man? He thinks it’s a portal to someplace better. Someplace a long way from here; that’s all I can tell you. Heaven? The fountain of Eternal life? Zanadu? Sesame Street? Who fucking cares? He’s out of his mind, Randy, but you wanted to know so I told you. If you want more, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “Yeah right. I wish,” Randy said, frustrated. “I can’t get near him.”

  “No. Not on your own you can’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lucius smiled at him, a big toothy feral smile that froze Randy to his spot on the floor. “What if I could get you in to see him? Would you like that?”

  “How can you pull that little miracle off? Peeler is in max, Lucius. No one gets in to see him. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Not true at all. He’s in max, sure, but he’s relatively harmless, except to himself of course. People know that and they don’t play nearly as hardball with him as some of the other whack jobs downstairs. The doctors get in… the guards get in… Director Ross gets in… and so does his best friend Lucius Barber, once a month, to visit and help keep the obviously disturbed Mr. Peeler happy as a peach.”

  “Are you serious? You visit him every month?”

  “That I do. Last Friday night of the month, 7:00 p.m. sharp! Director Ross thinks it’s good therapy for Peeler, letting him keep a little in touch with the world and all that jazz. I’m his only friend here so it’s me that gets in. We usually just shoot the shit for an hour and that’s about it. He seems to enjoy it and I’ve got nothing better to do either.”

  “That’s cool, but it still doesn’t help me.”

  “Oh, but it does my friend. We meet down in the basement, but not in Peeler’s room. Director Ross has a second office down there just outside the security gates and he supervises our visit.”

  “What? Director Ross will be there? He’s not going to let me in?”

  “Of course not, but we’re going to pull the coin trick, Randy. He’s used to me being there and will only see me, but you’re the other coin, the hidden one that no one ever looks for because they aren’t expecting it. You’re going to be hidden in the room, long before our meeting starts. Director Ross will open what he presumes is his empty, locked office, and let us in for our routine visit.”

  “What about Ross? He’ll find me hiding in there, I’m sure.”

  “No, he won’t. When I said he supervises us, all I meant was he walks us to his office and locks us inside. It’s been over a year since he actually sat with us. He’s got far more important thin
gs to do and when things get routine like this, people get lazy and careless. That’s why the coin trick always works. People only see what they want to see. Peeler and I will have been strip searched and escorted to a windowless, locked room, where someone from security will guard the door from the outside. No one thinks past the obvious. That’s how magic works my friend. Trust me, this will work. I’ll have to teach you how to pick a lock, but that’s a piece of cake. If you want it bad enough, I can get you in there.”

  Randy took a moment mulling the plan over. He knew about complacency and believed Lucius’ plan just might work, but the question was why did he want to go through with this in the first place? Was it really worth losing his job over seeing this unbalanced man? Probably not. Check that; definitely not, but that thought, no matter how true it might be, didn’t stop Randy’s scars from heating up and itching every time he thought of standing face to face with Peeler. Doing a little soul searching this morning, Randy was starting to admit to himself his big plans of being a famous chef were a crock of shit anyway. Who was he kidding? If he was going anywhere in life, he’d have been on his way there already. Being what amounted to a short order cook in a nuthouse wasn’t a stepping stone to becoming a real chef anymore than making paper airplanes was someone’s ticket to becoming an Astronaut. It was time to face facts here. Time to face reality. Randy was just a fucked up young man from a broken home that was never going to amount to much more than he already had. He’d survived his stepfather’s abuse and his mother’s indifference. He’d finished high school and he’d eventually found this decent job. Noting to be too proud of, but it was what it was and it was all he had. Maybe all he ever would. Was it worth tossing it all away? Of course not, but if nothing else Randy was a stubborn son of a bitch, an stress-induced compulsive self abuse addict and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get this mysterious man out of his head. Even knowing how wrong it was, he couldn’t stop wondering about him. What would he look like? What would Peeler say to him? And perhaps more importantly, would this strange skinless man be able to help Randy understand his own demons better? Hard to say, but Randy was honest enough with himself to know something inside him desperately needed to find out. Crazy or not, he’d never forgive himself if he let this opportunity slip away.