by Peter Butler
Larry shifted his gaze to his face in the mirror. He needed to brush his teeth. Arrgh! Not today. And he needed a shave but he didn't own an electric shaver so that had been decided for him. He fought his inner-demons that were demanding he dealt with these issues. That took more time than he could spare - it was his squeaky-clean hair that made the difference in the end. A small win against the gods of fate that had conspired against him. Another congratulatory glance at his hair and control was his at last. Well, a tiny bit, the words Larry and control were almost never found in the same sentence.
Dr Bohen would approve, though. That was almost enough to bring a smile to Larry's face, but stubble and dirty teeth ensured that didn't happen!
TWO
The shopping cart came careening down the curved exit ramp of the shopping center. A teenage boy was attached to the handle, a steely look of absolute concentration on his face as he scanned what lay before him. Inside the cart two supermarket bags full of groceries bounced violently whenever the cart crossed an expansion groove in the concrete, and threatened to topple. The boy wasn't pushing the cart - he was riding it, his backside stuck out behind to give him a small level of control, both his feet rested precariously on the metal frame above the rear wheels; they rattled and wobbled under the extreme pressure. The boy and cart were traveling fast, tracking beside the concrete edge of the driveway and heading directly towards a section where the sweeping curve became more extreme and then opened out onto the new lower level of the car-park.
Suddenly he thrust his body to the left, using his weight as a counter-weight behind the cart to steer it, his movement caused the front of the cart to flick violently in the opposite direction. But it wasn't enough. The cart's speed had remained constant and the concrete wall was still lined up for a certain collision - so he leaned out again, this time flicking his wrists to forcibly jerk the front of the cart more sharply away from the wall and then he deftly dug the side of his foot into the asphalt and moved his bodyweight forward. The two inside wheels initially lifted dangerously at the changed weight distribution, then just as quickly settled back down as the boy reacted and counterbalanced. Boy and cart hurtled on, the new potential impact point had been moved further away.
It only took a moment before he realized his efforts were not going to be enough and the steely look on his face changed to anguish. At the last second he was forced to use his foot again, this time as a brake, digging it into the roadway to avoid the collision. The cart's momentum dissolved and it slowed to walking speed. The boy jumped off the back, shook his head in disappointment and started pushing towards the central concrete pillar that housed the center's stairwell.
Three boys of similar age stood watching as he pushed the cart towards them, they were grinning, but not in a good way.
'Ya never goin to get that move right, Dillon,' the tallest one of the three yelled. The other two snickered.
Dillon kept pushing his cart, his gaze straight ahead, as if they were invisible to him.
'Ya run outta panty liners, or is it just tampons you needed today?' The tall boy taunted as he saw the shopping bags.
Dillon shifted his gaze to him. He desperately wanted to have a smart reply to shoot back at Zac, but nothing came, besides he did have a large packet of Overnight Tena Adult Diapers in the cart and if these jerks saw it he would never live it down, thank God the checkout lady had put it at the bottom of the bag. He settled on a piercing stare at Zac, kept his mouth clenched tightly and kept walking. His bicycle was chained to a "No Parking" sign at the back of the stairwell and he altered direction to pass his three tormentors.
Acting as one the three boys stepped in front of Dillon, blocking his way. 'What's ya hurry?' One of the other boys asked, 'Gotta get home and wax ya mound?'
The other two thought that was hilarious.
'You guys need to get some new material, you're about as funny as a toothache,' Dillon finally responded, he kept the comment matter-of-fact, neither a joke nor a serious reprimand, his face impassive, bored even. He knew he wasn't going to get past them that easily, but he didn't want to push back too hard - three against one didn't add up, particularly when the three were Zac, Wood and Jordy.
Wood reached out and blocked the cart with both hands, from the side Zac started to rifle through one of the two shopping bags; the one with the diapers. He emptied some cans and a bag of frozen peas into the shopping cart before Dillon jerked the cart out of Wood's hands and swung it away from them. It happened quickly, knocking a can from Zac's grip and sending it back to the wire basket below. He began to run, pushing the cart as fast as he could in whatever direction he found himself facing. He could hear the three boys laughing as he put some distance between himself and them. The good news was, they didn't run after him. He came to a stop a safe distance away, shielded from them by a line of parked cars and a row of concrete pillars. He craned his neck to look back to the stairwell entrance, they appeared to have left but he wanted to give it a bit longer before he returned to his bike. He spent a moment or two repacking the bag Zac had messed with then began walking in a wide loop around the car park, keeping his eyes on the stairwell as he walked just in case they were hiding somewhere.
As he approached his bike he could see what they had done. The bike seat had been reversed leaving the narrow section that should sit between his legs facing towards the rear. Dillon's bike was one of the older types, it had a wide seat and used a bolt and nut to tighten the seat, the newer, thinner versions could be adjusted by simply pulling a lever. Dillon suspected he had been on the gang's radar for a few weeks now, coincidentally, ever since Emily Kane had started talking to him. He guessed that Zac might be pissed at him for that, as Zac and Emily were a couple for about half a term, but not any more. He assumed that Emily had dumped him. The only thing he couldn't understand was why it had taken her so long. Dillon was a loner and completely inexperienced and rather shy with girls, it had been Emily who had initiated all their short conversations, so far. He was on the very verge of getting his confidence.
Dillon normally kept his distance from Zac - he was a spoiled, over-indulged dick, and association with him usually ended badly. At least that was the consensus at school.
They must have been planning this prank for a while as no normal person carries a wrench with them. Dillon certainly didn't. It was going to be an interesting ride home.
He unlocked and unwound the chain that secured his bike to the pole and looped a shopping bag over each side of the handlebars. The now useless cart was pushed against the pole and he wheeled his bike out to a clear area before throwing his leg over the seat and top bar. He shook his head as he positioned his butt on the very front of the seat and pushed off. He found he could pedal reasonably well in this position and tried slipping back on the seat to see if that would be also be okay. In that position he found himself pedaling with his legs pointing almost at right-angles to the bike, plus, his balls were being squashed by the fat rim of the seat and pushed back into his pelvic bone, creating a world of pain. He shifted back to the original riding position. After a short distance he had become more comfortable with this unusual riding technique, he looked ridiculous, he guessed, because he was forced to sit straight backed and remain very vertical as he pedaled away.
He rode out of the shopping center through the boom-gates by ducking around the end of the wooden boom. No toll for Dillon. The guy in the Ticket-Booth gave a dirty look in response to Dillon's smug grin, but said nothing - out loud, at least.
A trip of approximately one mile lay ahead of him, normally he would ace it, arriving within a few minutes, even with the daunting prospect of pedaling up Trumpet Hill. Today, that was going to be an issue. He practiced various different styles of pedaling, eventually settling on a method that had his backside hovering over the seat but not touching it. Tiring, but as good as it was going to get, short of getting off the bike and wheeling it. And that wasn't going to happen.
Dillon had worked up both a sweat
and a rash by the time he pulled up in front of the dainty picket fence. Originally white it was now closer to beige, and that was only the sections that actually had paint on them. He unlatched the gate and made his way to the front door and knocked. After a long wait it opened and an old lady looked out through the gap between the door and the door frame. 'What can I do for you, young man?' she asked.
'It's me, Mrs Kemsley... Dillon! I've got your groceries,' he said, holding up the two plastic shopping bags for her to see.
'Groceries?' her eyes widened, eagerly and so did the door. 'I hope you bought some cat food,' she said, as he squeezed beside her and entered the house without waiting to be invited.
Dillon didn't respond to her question - she didn't have a cat and he knew from experience that she would forget that line of questioning almost immediately and move on to something else. It might be something relevant, or it might not. Mary Kemsley's brain came and went, she was steadily falling under the grip of dementia, and according to Dillon's mother would need permanent help very soon. Until that time arrived the neighbors all pitched in; her trash was emptied, her lawn mowed, her meals were prepared and dropped off. A neighbor would always sit with her at mealtime making sure she ate enough. Once recently they had left her to supervise her own meal, only to find she had poured milk all over her roast dinner. She thought it was breakfast cereal, she said, surprised at their shocked reaction as it had still tasted fine.
Dillon lived seven houses down from Mrs Kemsley and his altruistic gesture of getting her groceries twice a week actually had a large chunk of self-interest involved.
He walked through to her kitchen and began putting the purchases into the pantry and fridge. Mrs Kemsley stood-by and watched, like she was taking an inventory of the items she was receiving. Dillon took the personal items to the bathroom. Mary followed and watched. He left them beside the handbasin for others to put away. Dillon was quietly terrified of what he might find inside Mary's bathroom cupboards and drawers, fearing they would contain items his young eyes would never recover from seeing.
Next, he went into her lounge room, Mary followed like a faithful puppy, a passive, unconcerned look on her face. Dillon turned on her television, flicking through the channels, when suddenly, behind him, Mary gave a little shriek. Dillon stopped channel surfing and turned to Mrs Kemsley, he led her by the arm to her sofa and helped her get comfortable. Her seat was squarely in front of the TV and less than six feet away from it. Mary's eyes and ears were also failing her. The shriek she had given was caused by a flashy, brightly lit and very loud game-show that was full of screaming fans and contestants. Mary loved all the excitement and lights and would sit, mesmerized, with her face locked on the screen for hours. She had long ago forgotten how to turn the set on or off, so it was up to the neighbors to look after that.
Only seconds had passed but Mary had already forgotten he was in her house, so Dillon departed the room. He had repairs to make to his bike. He went outside to the shed and took one of her long-dead husband's wrenches off the wall. He returned it a minute later and went back into the house, Mary still sat and stared. An overly-excited woman had just guessed the correct price of a washing machine and now had to decide which curtain hid her prize. He stood in the doorway shaking his head, feeling sorry for both women, wondering if this was the way everyone ended their days.
Dillon didn't have much time today, thanks to Zac and his fellow jerks, but he knew he would have enough - it never took him long. He made his way to Mary's spare bedroom and shut the door. The room was a visual onslaught and he always felt slightly uneasy being in there, alone. It can't have been used as a bedroom for a long time, he reasoned, and it had to have been a girls room, or a very gay guy, as the old-fashioned furnishings were predominantly pink, topped off with frilly things. The single bed had a soft-pink duvet draped over it and the pillows, although white, had pink lace around their edges. Dillon carefully eased the pink curtains open a few inches and edged closer so he could peer through the gap he had created. The bedroom was on the side of the house and faced into the living room of the house next door. Only about twenty feet and a three-foot high fence with some scattered bushes either side separated the two properties. The house Dillon was looking at belonged to a local policeman, Sergeant Ethan Jennison and his wife Sherri. Dillon knew the policeman would be at work, he also knew Sherri would be at home and she spent a lot of her time in that living room. He knew this because he had studied his subject for some time now - Dillon had a huge crush on Sherri Jennison.
Easily twice his age, she was beautiful in every way he could imagine; a model's face with liquid emerald green eyes, a thin delicate nose that had a tiny tilt at it's end, and rich lips that she colored with bright red lipstick. Her ample body was everything a teenage boy could dream of; large, full breasts jutted out from a runway-flat belly, pencil thin waist and amazing legs that any Hollywood starlet would kill for. Dillon's eye filled the gap in Mrs Kemsley's curtains and was rewarded with more than he had hoped to see. He actually gasped out loud when he saw her. Normally he would have caught occasional glimpses of Sherri as she moved though the room, once she had been vacuuming and that was an excellent day. Today was beyond excellent, the curtains of her living room window were wide open, Sherri must have been watching an exercise program on TV as she was bouncing up and down, throwing her arms above her head and clapping them together at the top of the swing. Her breasts bounced in time with her leaps, her long flowing, chestnut colored hair thrashed around behind her.
Dillon could see all this... and a lot more, because Sherri was a practicing nudist and rarely wore clothes inside her home. With eyes locked like a heat-seeking missile on what was happening, his heart thumped like a bass drum and threatened to explode out of his chest. He momentarily glanced skyward and muttered, 'Thank you, God,' as he reached down to release his belt-buckle.
THREE
Larry left his house by the rear door as he always did, locking it and then completing a circumnavigation of his home, counting his steps as he went, checking that every window and entry point was securely locked. It was essential to check each one exactly three times. Crime certainly was at a low level in his hometown of Devondane, situated about one hundred miles from the picturesque East Coast and an hours drive from the nearest big metropolis, Charlotte, North Carolina. The police kept a very close eye on any potential troublemakers and Larry was grateful for their diligence but decided that he was ultimately the one responsible for his wellbeing. He walked to his van, which he parked in his driveway near the front of the house, unlocked it and climbed aboard the white Ford Transit. Larry turned the key and listened as the diesel motor clanged and chugged before eventually firing and simultaneously belching a giant cloud of heavy gray exhaust fumes, as it always did. The radio came alive after the starter-motor had stopped hogging all the power and "The Who" were playing on the sixties station that was Larry's permanent choice. He had given up trying to find any decent new music over ten years ago, coincidentally, just after he acquired this van. He eased the battered and bruised vehicle cautiously out onto the street and pulled away gently, careful not to put too much strain on the aging motor until it warmed-up.
Larry liked The Who and he sang along, hopelessly out of tune as usual and adding his version of the lyrics, my, my.. my generation, baby. I hope I "cry" before I get old... Larry couldn't bring himself to sing out loud the real lyrics, just in case God heard it as an actual request to die. He did the same with another favorite, American Pie - when Don McLean sang, This'll be the day I die, Larry corrected the suspect lyrics. It was the prudent thing to do. Although not overly religious, Larry's closed mind was open to the idea of hedging his bets on this subject.
Larry's was the only vehicle moving along his street. He had expected more activity in the area as his neighbors realized they had no water. Lesser minds would need to confer with others to confirm that a situation had occurred. Larry automatically knew that. He didn't know specifics, like a
truck had crashed into a hydrant or a meteor had plummeted into a vital piece of infrastructure, it made no difference to the result - the water was off, end of story, and sharing speculations with neighbors about its cause would be pointless. Knowing others were sharing the same pain made it easier for a lot of people to deal with issues like this, but not Larry, he kept his own counsel, dealt with his own problems - when he could.
When he couldn't, it was time for a session or two with Dr Bohen and maybe some fine tuning of his medication. Larry had been diagnosed as having an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and low-level Asperger syndrome. He didn't agree with doctor's assessment, particularly the OCD part, he saw his organizational skills as an an asset that lifted him well above the mundane averageness that pervaded the human race. And Asperger's! - Phooey! Larry had required one appointment with Dr Bohen since Jacquelin had unexpectedly left his home; he needed a second expert opinion about the meaning of the head up your ass comment in her note. Dr Bohen had agreed with Larry that Jacquelin was not mentally anywhere near the level that he was at. At least, that was Larry's interpretation of what he said. Dr Bohen had actually suggested he should try not to get upset when someone commented on the way he did things. Every one of us is different, he had said, we all make mistakes. A clear indication the doctor supported his deduction.
