by Mic Palmer
“Fine,” said Michelle, and within seconds the officious crustacean was ushering them to their table.
While pulling out her chair, Jack took the opportunity to take a good look at her.
Whereas her photo showed her with hair well past her shoulders, she now sported a bob. This in combination with her hyper-stylish half-rimmed spectacles gave her the smart sexy look of a spy. “So how was your day?” she perfunctorily asked.
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Fine,” he responded. “What about you?”
While robotically explaining some minor crisis involving her work as a nurse, she could be observed scrutinizing Jack’s face, making him feel flush and uncomfortable. She had hard brown frenetic eyes that seemed to see right through him; probing eyes that knew he wore his shirt out to hide his gut; psychic eyes that foresaw his future financial problems; and most of all haughty eyes that were fully aware that she was not only smarter than he, but better. Rolling back in her head when she thought he wasn’t looking, they were the calculating exasperated eyes of a woman who had been through a long string of nobodies.
“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting herself for a phone call.
Jack thought for sure that she’d soon be uttering some sort of excuse, and frankly he would have preferred it. Anything beat sitting there knowing that she was just passing the time.
“That was my ex,” she griped, with a crinkling of her long avian nose. “He can’t find my daughter’s retainer. If it doesn’t directly involve him, he’s completely lost.”
Having excused herself to go to the bathroom, she grabbed her purse and hurried off. Although a bit hefty in the bottom, it worked for her, and apparently she knew it. Wearing a tight fitting sheer green dress, with no visible panty lines, she glided across the room with the distinctive carriage of someone who expected to be watched.
“Must be wearing a thong,” Jack mused, wondering whether she’d ever return.
Within about five minutes he got his answer, the reason being she was hungry. By the time her branzino was served, she had already devoured three heavily buttered rolls, nearly all of the fried calamari, and a dozen olives. Had Jack not known better, he might have thought that she was having a good time. In any event he loved watching her eat, even while she sometimes placed a bit too much food in her mouth.
Having begun to tell her about his day, Jack quickly realized that he had made a mistake. What woman wanted be out with a guy who had just lost his job? Fortunately, she sensed the beginnings of a sob story and quickly took action. “Excuse me,” she unabashedly interrupted, “but I have to make call.”
“That’s ok,” said Jack, as she got up and walked away, but that was before he had time to think.
“Who cuts people off like that?” he finally asked himself. Had she been less attractive, he might have even said something, but the truth was that he was still trying to win her over and by the time she returned was all smiles and blandishments.
“Why in the hell did I order the lobster?” he censoriously reflected. Squirting her in the eye with what appeared to be a green chunk of liver, he could sense her dismay.
Still and all she was a good sport about it. “Had I known you’d be eating shell fish, I would have brought my sport’s goggles.”
Moments later when Jack shot a broken piece of claw onto the next table, she was in stitches.
“I thought you might like a taste,” he told the surprised couple.
“It’s on you,” added his date, rather gamely; nevertheless, she soon reverted to form, taking several phone calls right there at the table.
Did she really think he had nothing better to do than to sit there and listen to her chatting away with what appeared to be her children and friends? “Was she mentally ill? Who does this?”
Her manner was casually secretive and superficially polite, as if turning her head and speaking in a lower voice made her behavior acceptable. She knew the phone calls were bothering him, but didn’t care, and just to drive home the point, she soon began texting.
“Maybe she really is crazy,” Jack mused.
Hunched in her chair, bouncing up and down, as her fingers worked the tiny keyboard, she had the expert form of a concert pianist.
“She’s worse than a teenager,” Jack thought to himself, recalling a story Gomez had recently told him about trying to get his son to paint his bedroom.
“Before the job was completed he must have sent and received no less than a hundred messages,” railed his colleague. “He acted like I was torturing him, not because of the work, but because I was pulling him away from his idiotic button pushing. I swear to God, he never took more than two strokes at a time. After a quick up and down, with a face like he was being killed, he’d pull out his phone and be right back at it, as if it was the most important thing in the world.”
“How did it come to this?” Jack mused, as he stared at his date. Not an unexpressed thought, not a well worn idea, not a moment alone. Her only purpose it seemed was to speak – not to communicate mind you – but to produce words, to be engaged, to be doing something.
Upon paying the check, Jack couldn’t wait to drop her off. In fact he was disappointed that she had accepted his offer to drive her home. But then, as he watched her walk past the lobster tanks, he suddenly began to reconsider. She had a jiggle that he could feel in his boxers and a lingering fragrance that reminded him of damp sheets on a hot summer’s night.
Rummaging through some spare change and pistachio nuts, he pulled from his pocket a lint-covered breath mint that he wiped off and slipped into his mouth.
As much as he knew that it wasn’t a fantastic evening and that she had done everything she could, short of propositioning the busboy, to show him that she wasn’t interested, he irresistibly began reexamining the evidence.
“She does have children,” he rationalized. “Evenings like this might be rare.”
“Are you coming?” she peevishly asked, as she dramatically stopped to wait for him.
“Sorry,” said Jack, not at all certain of what she was after.
“You’re like one of my kids,” she told him, with a conscious effort to lighten up. “Stop dawdling.”
“She’s an older woman,” he reasoned, “with an ex-husband and a demanding job. Even if I’m not her knight in shining armor, who’s to say she’s not looking for a little companionship?”
Positioned just right, his Mustang glistened in the moonlight. “Nice car,” she told him. Full figured in all of the right places, she waited for him to open the door.
Jack reached for his keys, stooped over and before he realized what he was doing found himself kissing her.
The woman recoiled like a cat. “I’m sorry,” she coldly explained, “but I just don’t find you attractive.”
Jack’s blood began to boil, not so much because of what she said, but because of her need to say it. She could have lied, made a joke, or said nothing, but instead she chose to hurt him. “You’re no prize either,” he impulsively responded.
Taking her pointy little chin and tilting it upwards, while at the same time raising her eyebrows, in a show of boredom, she appeared superior, even contemptuous, as if she were a Brahmin in the presence of an untouchable. “Then why’d you try to kiss me?”
“I guess I didn’t realize how hard up I was.”
“Fuck you, ya fat slob.”
“Why don’t you have another stick of butter,” he responded. “I think you might have left one.”
Although she had begun turning away from him, an irresistible force caused her to spin back around and smack him in the face.
Jack reached for his left cheek, which had begun to bleed. Having failed to completely close her hand, she had accidentally scratched him.
“Is everything all right?” asked a bystander.
“Fine,” said the woman as she stormed off.
Chapter Five
The hazy silhouette of a man could be seen holding a s
evered big toe in one hand and a branch clipper in the other. “You’re strong,” he told her.
Looking toward him from the floor, the woman squinted. Although she had lost her glasses in the struggle, she could see that he was rather large and imposing. Dressed in a oversized yellow rain coat and big floppy fisherman’s cap, he appeared almost comical, like a child dressed for a storm. “Why are you doing this?” she managed, her body gently quivering.
The man held the appendage as if it were a cigar. More cylindrical than bulbous, it had a clean nail and scrupulous cuticle. “It almost reminds me of a finger,” he thoughtfully murmured.
The room appeared large, almost cavernous, but owing to her eyes, she wasn’t able to make out much beyond her own little zone of terror.
“You’re pretty,” he told her, “have you had any work done?”
Racked in pain, she still felt a pang of indignation. “No,” she managed.
Next to the man was a small table, upon which he kept a tray of knives, scalpels and retractors. Having placed the appendage on a wad of gauze, he dropped the lopper onto the floor and picked up a scalpel. Examining it under the light, within a rather large, somewhat pruned hand, he seemed to be entranced. “Are you sure?”
The woman attempted a smile, which only served to make her appear more frightened. “Well maybe around the eyes.”
“And such lovely eyes.” Studying them for a moment, he almost seemed to be moved. “I’m sorry,” he continued, “but they’re so dilated I can’t make out the color.”
The woman began crying in a way that could have been confused for laughter. “They’re green,” she told him.
“Really? I never would have guessed that.”
Having grabbed a clump of red curly hair, she pulled her head into her knees. Although her hands were free, her feet were bound by wire. “I can’t stand this,” she shrieked. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Soon enough,” he whispered, which served to calm her a bit. “But first you have to show me something.”
“What?”
The woman was seated on a carpet – an elaborate gold and silver production, full of triangles and squares. Landing next to her was a scalpel.
“No!” she screamed.
“Listen to me,” he told her. “I’m not going to play games. There is a way out of here, but you have to do exactly what I say.”
Turning away, she yanked at her hair.
“I want you to pick up the knife. Go on.” His voice was soft and reassuring.
Slowly, she complied.
“Good,” he went on. “Now cut off your top.”
Continuously weeping the woman appeared as if in a trance. “Why don’t I just take it off?”
“No!” he shouted. “I want you to use the knife.”
Methodically slicing through her green turtleneck, she accidentally nicked her belly.
“Good,” he purred. “Now the brassiere.”
Quaking violently, she followed his instructions. Her large naked breasts felt cold beneath sweaty palms.
“Move your hands,” he ordered; he then sprayed her chest with some sort of numbing agent.
Looking at her mutilated foot, she was surprised at how little it bled. “What are you doing?” she sobbed.
“Feel fortunate you’re not a man,” he told her.
The icy spray caused her nipples to become erect, and she began to blush.
“Now it’s time to prove yourself,” he told her. “This is not going to be easy, but if you can do what I say, I assure you, I’ll set you free.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed, not quite knowing what he was driving at.
“Be strong,” he admonished. “You think I want to do this?”
“What do you want from me?” she cried out.
His voice was soft yet insistent. “I want you to remove a breast.”
Suddenly her sobbing let up. “Are you fucking high?”
All at once the scalpel struck the man in the shoulder, leaving a tiny nick.
Realizing what she had done, the woman covered her face. “I’m sorry,” she told him.
Seeming calm at first, her captor dabbed the wound with his middle finger and then sucked off the blood. Suddenly, however, his expression became twisted, as if he had a hook in his mouth. Pouncing upon her, he pinned her to the ground by the neck and cut a two inch incision above her left breast.
“This is how we learn,” he grunted. “Now either I can do it, in which case we’re just getting started, or you can, in which case I promise to leave you in front of a hospital.”
Hysterical for a moment, the woman calmed herself, just enough to speak. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a matter of will,” he responded. “Without which we’re nothing.”
“I’m not going to do it,” she shouted.
Like a wolf the man drew up his lips, revealing long white teeth. Placing the knife into her palm, he returned to his feet. “Show me you’re worth saving.”
The woman was incensed. Lunging at him with great speed and ferocity, she came within inches of stabbing him in the chest. Because of the bindings, however, she fell forward onto her elbows.
“A matter of will?” she hollered. “Then why don’t you really prove something and cut off your fuck’n balls!”
The man stepped on her hand and removed the scalpel. Then he dragged her back onto the carpet. “I’ve been more than tested,” he plaintively told her. “Trust me. Now in about twenty minutes the lidocaine is going to start wearing off; so if you really want to get out of here, you damn well better get to work.”
Hyperventilating, the woman’s skin felt as if it could have detected an electron bumping into it, and yet she began. “Ah,” she whimpered. “I can feel it.”
“It’s in your head.”
“Spray it again!” demanded the woman.
“Fine,” said the man, somewhat amused.
Cutting deeply enough to observe a cross section of spongy red tissue, she felt as though she was going to faint.
“Impressive.” he told her. “Now finish.”
Every now and then she had to turn away in order to sob and breathe. Nevertheless, she continued.
“Good,” he rasped.
Soon she was half way through, the realization of which suddenly struck her. “I can’t do this,” she bawled. “I don’t care. I don’t care.”
The man appeared relieved. “Then I guess it’s my turn,” he smugly declared.
“Wait,” she told him, with a tightening of the lips.
Taken aback, the madman didn’t know what to say, which even now made her happy. Grimly resuming the procedure, she for some reason assumed that he would keep his end of the bargain.
Chapter Six
Popping and splattering, bacon grease filled the apartment with the smoky air of another lazy Saturday morning. Without even thinking about it, Jack flipped the eggs like a short order cook. The secret was to not skimp on the butter. That way they didn’t stick, and when they were ready, he could just tilt the pan and slide them onto his plate.
On the counter next to the stove was a small television set, tuned to one of the twenty-four hour news networks, but Jack barely noticed. Having drained the grease from the skillet onto his plate, he began rummaging through the refrigerator for the mayonnaise, which for some reason caused him to think of Michelle. Maybe he was too hard on her. After all she was just telling the truth.
Cured in maple syrup, the hickory smoked bacon was cooked to perfection. Not too soggy, not too crisp. Dunking it in the mayonnaise, he sat down to the want ads. On days such as this, when his personal and professional failings cast shadows on his every thought, he felt not only impelled but entitled to the reassuring presence of fat and sugar, even while the slightest exertion would already send his overworked heart into fits of tachycardia.
While never an athlete in the organized, smack your teammate on the ass sort of way, Jack had always been lean and wiry. One of his proudest
memories as a matter of fact was the time he inched out one of the fastest kids on the track team with nary a second of practice, after which the football coach spent the next three years trying to recruit him. Jack, however, would have none of it. Between working on his art and keeping up with his girlfriends, he couldn’t imagine where he’d find the time, even while a part of him knew that someday he’d regret it. “What was I nuts?” he’d still sometimes ask himself.
Whereas back then he could beat out trained athletes, without so much as breaking a sweat, nowadays he could barely make it up the steps of the subway. Though a member of a gym, he’d rarely attend, but when he did, he’d invariably wind up hunched over or limping. He just wasn’t cut out for it, not now at least, not at thirty nine, but what really bothered him was the fact that so many men were. Albeit in their fifties or even sixties, they’d somehow push themselves until it appeared their heads would explode, and yet days later they’d be right back at, without the slightest hint of being any worse for the wear. No, it wasn’t his age per se, but rather the luck of the draw. Whereas some go on just as they always have, Jack seemed to have been made with the goal of planned obsolescence in mind, like an automobile or refrigerator.
“Quit complaining,” he’d guiltily mumble, upon seeing an amputee or paraplegic, yet irresistibly he’d still manage to distinguish himself. “At least they know what to expect,” he’d stupidly rationalize. Nevertheless, he had a point.
Possessing just enough health to make him want more, but not quite enough to really do anything with it, he found himself constantly frustrated. Even if it only involved knocking down a rack of bowling pins, whacking a softball, or catching the winning pass in a game of touch football, he was thoroughly bereft of all the minor victories that made a man feel he was more than just a silent victim to the irresistible currents of history, but that’s not to say he never fought back. More than a few times, as a matter of fact, he had diligently tried to rehabilitate himself. The result, however, was always the same. Whereas he’d have a good workout for a few weeks or so, causing him to believe he had finally discovered the answer, he’d invariably break down and spend the next few months laid up on his sofa.
