Inside, I put my lights on and lock the door. I look for intrusion but no one's intruded. I'm paranoid, some would say, but with my life it's not really paranoia, now, is it? I sprinkle fish flakes on the fishes' sky in the tank. This always seems wrong, this diet. But I eat meat and a lot of it. I'm meat too. So what's the difference? Besides, they enjoy it and I enjoy the mini frenzy. They are gold and black and red and dart like pure impulse.
I go to the bathroom and take a shower, to wash off the worry from the mall. And the sweat too. Even on a cold spring day like this, I am damp with escape sweat.
I put the news on. Yes, after a thousand commercials, a story fades onto the screen about the incident at the shopping center in Brooklyn. The escalator malfunction, the man killed so horribly. And the gunshot! Well, that explains it. A police officer tried to stop the motor and rescue the victim by shooting it out. Didn't work. Was it Red who fired the futile bullet? If so, I give her credit for ingenuity.
I see a message on the answering machine--yes, old-fashioned.
"Vernon. Hi. Had
to work late."
Feel that tightness in my gut. She going to cancel? But then I learn it's all right:
"So I'll be closer to eight. If that's okay."
Her tone is flat but then it always is. She's not a woman with spring in her voice. She has never laughed that I've seen.
"If I don't hear from you, I'll just come over. If that's too late, it's okay. Just call me."
Alicia's that way. Afraid something will break if she causes any disturbance, asks too much, disagrees even if to anyone else it's not disagreement but just asking a question. Or wondering.
I can do anything to her. Anything.
Which I like, I must say. It makes me feel powerful. Makes me feel good. People have done things to me that aren't so nice. This seems only fair.
I look out the window for Red or any other cops. None.
Paranoia...
I check the fridge and pantry for dinner things. Soup, egg rolls, chili without beans, whole chicken, tortillas. Lots of sauces and dips. Cheese.
Skinny bean, Slim Jim. Yeah, that's me.
But I eat like a stevedore.
I'm thinking of the two sandwiches I had at Starbucks earlier, particularly enjoyed the smoked ham. Recalling the scream, looking out. See Red scanning the coffee shop, not turning toward the scream, like any normal human being would.
Shopper... Spitting out the word, in my mind at least.
Furious at her.
So. I need some comfort. I collect my backpack from its perch by the front door and carry it across the room. I punch numbers into the lock for the Toy Room. I installed the lock myself, which is probably not allowed in a rental. They don't let you do much when you rent. But I pay on time so no one comes to look. Besides I need the Toy Room locked, so it's locked. All the time.
I undo a strong dead bolt. And then I'm inside. The Toy Room is dim except for the bright halogens over the battered table that holds my treasures. The beams of light dance blindingly off the metal edges and blades, mostly shiny steel. The Toy Room is quiet. I soundproofed it well, carefully cutting and fitting sheets of wood and acoustic material over walls and mounting shutters on the window. One could scream oneself hoarse in here and not be heard outside.
I take the bone cracker, the ball-peen hammer, from my backpack and clean and oil it and put it into its place on the workbench shelf. Then a new acquisition, a razor saw, serrated. I unbox it and test the edge with my finger. Whisk, whisk... It was made in Japan. My mother told me once that it used to be considered a bad thing, when she was growing up, to have a product made in Japan. How times have changed. Oh, my, this is really quite the clever device. A saw made from a long straight razor. Test the edge again, and, well, see: I've just removed a layer of epidermis.
This, which has now become my new favorite implement, I place in a location of honor on the shelf. I have the absurd thought that the other implements will be jealous and sad. I'm funny that way. But when your life has been thrown off kilter by Shoppers, you breathe life into inanimate things. Is that so odd, though? They're more dependable than people.
I look at the blade once more. A reflected flash from the light smacks my eye and the room tilts as the pupil shrinks. The sensation is eerie but not unpleasant.
I have a sudden impulse to bring Alicia inside here. Almost a need. I picture the light reflecting off the steel onto her skin, like it's doing on mine. I really don't know her well at all, but I think I will, bring her here, I mean. A low feeling in my gut is telling me to.
Breathing faster now.
Should I do that? Bring her here tonight?
That churning in my groin tells me yes. And I can picture her skin reflected in the metal shapes on the workbench, polished to mirror.