Thursday, April 28, 2011
So Much Promise...
“I thought I’d find you here.”
He jumped, then, embarrassed, turned to find Lester standing beside him. The fool was still dressed in his Halloween get up. All black leather and queer eyes.
Why hadn’t he noticed him come in? Ah well, didn’t matter. “Good evening,” he said icily, watching the little idiot standing beside him, a cheery smile on his stupid face.
“Yes, lovely evening.” And, without for an invitation, he slid into the seat opposite Morris. “Enjoying the show?” He waved airily at the street beyond the plate glass window.
“I would hardly refer to this as a show,” Morris said, though that’s exactly what he’d been thinking. “This a tragic event. A human being has lost his …or her . . . life out there.”
“Well, that’s way it looks.” Lester seemed unfazed by the rebuke. He gazed dreamily out the window. “But, I’d bet you a donut that they’ll discover the murder took place somewhere else. Then the body was dropped here. For some reason.”
Morris felt a little chill.
Lester seemed to remember where he was. “Anyway, I wanted to track you down before I left the campus. I have something for you.”
“What . . . do you have?”
“This.” He produced a bundle of papers. “This is the material you were paying me to collect from the archive. I thought I’d pass it on.”
Morris took the documents gingerly. “What are they?”
“Copies of originals and my transcriptions.”
“Original what?” Morris was feeling more than little mystified.
“Decuir . . . your mass murderer, remember him? . . . well, it turns out he did automatic writing. Ever hear of automatic writing?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Decuir turned out scads of it. He’s got pages and pages of the stuff in his files. I copied a bunch and, well, sort of translated it for you. The originals aren’t easy to read.”
Morris put the papers down on the table in front of him and started to read. “What is all this?”
“Mostly quotes from famous literary works. It seems your good Doctor Decuir had a taste for the gothic. There’s stuff from Marlow’s Faustus, Poe stories, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner . . . you know, the part where the dead sailors get up and walk.
Morris made some vague disgusted sound and put the papers aside. “Anything else? I mean, of genuine value?”
“Nope. Not a bit. Your Decuir was one boring boy, I’m afraid to say. Not a single blood stained scalpel or pickled eyeball to be found in any of the boxes. Sad, really.”
“Sad?”
“Tragic. So much promise. So few slaughtered.”
He jumped, then, embarrassed, turned to find Lester standing beside him. The fool was still dressed in his Halloween get up. All black leather and queer eyes.
Why hadn’t he noticed him come in? Ah well, didn’t matter. “Good evening,” he said icily, watching the little idiot standing beside him, a cheery smile on his stupid face.
“Yes, lovely evening.” And, without for an invitation, he slid into the seat opposite Morris. “Enjoying the show?” He waved airily at the street beyond the plate glass window.
“I would hardly refer to this as a show,” Morris said, though that’s exactly what he’d been thinking. “This a tragic event. A human being has lost his …or her . . . life out there.”
“Well, that’s way it looks.” Lester seemed unfazed by the rebuke. He gazed dreamily out the window. “But, I’d bet you a donut that they’ll discover the murder took place somewhere else. Then the body was dropped here. For some reason.”
Morris felt a little chill.
Lester seemed to remember where he was. “Anyway, I wanted to track you down before I left the campus. I have something for you.”
“What . . . do you have?”
“This.” He produced a bundle of papers. “This is the material you were paying me to collect from the archive. I thought I’d pass it on.”
Morris took the documents gingerly. “What are they?”
“Copies of originals and my transcriptions.”
“Original what?” Morris was feeling more than little mystified.
“Decuir . . . your mass murderer, remember him? . . . well, it turns out he did automatic writing. Ever hear of automatic writing?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Decuir turned out scads of it. He’s got pages and pages of the stuff in his files. I copied a bunch and, well, sort of translated it for you. The originals aren’t easy to read.”
Morris put the papers down on the table in front of him and started to read. “What is all this?”
“Mostly quotes from famous literary works. It seems your good Doctor Decuir had a taste for the gothic. There’s stuff from Marlow’s Faustus, Poe stories, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner . . . you know, the part where the dead sailors get up and walk.
Morris made some vague disgusted sound and put the papers aside. “Anything else? I mean, of genuine value?”
“Nope. Not a bit. Your Decuir was one boring boy, I’m afraid to say. Not a single blood stained scalpel or pickled eyeball to be found in any of the boxes. Sad, really.”
“Sad?”
“Tragic. So much promise. So few slaughtered.”
Thursday, April 14, 2011
At the Greek's
He glanced up and down the street. To the right, cars stretched off as far as he could see. To the left . . . police vehicles! Cop cars with the lights flashing, an ambulance, rescue vans, even a fire engine.
Hell! The traffic blocked the entrance to the parking lot. No one would be able to get out for hours. Hell. Hell. Hell.
Still, it could be worse. If he had to be late, tonight wasn’t a bad time for it. His wife would be teaching her six-to-ten class at State. His son, well, his son would be doing whatever it was his son did these days. His daughter . . . he knew what she was doing. He just preferred not to think about it. So long as she didn’t get pregnant.
He might as well grab supper. There was a sub shop down the way. He frequently went there for lunch. Why not dinner as well?
Feeling almost jaunty, he headed down the street. The sub shop was actually in the direction of the emergency vehicles, so he soon found himself approaching the scence of whatever it was that had happened. There were police everywhere. Their attentions seemed to be focused on an aged hatchback parked across the street. Yellow tape sealed off the area, and, strangely, the EMTs had draped a tarp over the parked car.
He came to his sub shop and entered. It was empty of customers, which was a good thing. He hated to eat where his students might see him. Not befitting the dignity of the office, and all that.
The Greek behind the counter took his order for a meatball sub without comment. Morris realized the man was staring over his shoulder and out the front windows of the shop. He turned. The ambulance had driven up beside the parked car. Police were removing something from the car, wrapped in some kind of bag. They put it on a wheeled stretcher. The loaded it on the ambulance, which, in turn, drove away in a fury of red lights.
“Say,” he asked the man behind the counter. “What happened out there?”
The Greek shrugged uneasily. “Donno. They found a body.”
“A body?”
“Dead man, yeah. They found him. Kid tried to steal the car and he found the body.”
Morris couldn’t help smiling. It was terrible, of course, but there was something funny about it. The thief making a clean getaway, only to find something rotting in the back. “Did they say what the body . . um . . died of?”
Again the man shrugged. “No one told me. Here’s your sandwich.”
He took it and a can of soda to a window table. Not bad, he thought, watching the police and crime scene investigators do their thing outside. Not bad at all. A good sandwich, and a free floor show. What more could you ask?
The sandwich went down easily. Then, he sipped his soda while he watched men in uniform removing things in transparent bags from the parked car. All very interesting.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
d
Hell! The traffic blocked the entrance to the parking lot. No one would be able to get out for hours. Hell. Hell. Hell.
Still, it could be worse. If he had to be late, tonight wasn’t a bad time for it. His wife would be teaching her six-to-ten class at State. His son, well, his son would be doing whatever it was his son did these days. His daughter . . . he knew what she was doing. He just preferred not to think about it. So long as she didn’t get pregnant.
He might as well grab supper. There was a sub shop down the way. He frequently went there for lunch. Why not dinner as well?
Feeling almost jaunty, he headed down the street. The sub shop was actually in the direction of the emergency vehicles, so he soon found himself approaching the scence of whatever it was that had happened. There were police everywhere. Their attentions seemed to be focused on an aged hatchback parked across the street. Yellow tape sealed off the area, and, strangely, the EMTs had draped a tarp over the parked car.
He came to his sub shop and entered. It was empty of customers, which was a good thing. He hated to eat where his students might see him. Not befitting the dignity of the office, and all that.
The Greek behind the counter took his order for a meatball sub without comment. Morris realized the man was staring over his shoulder and out the front windows of the shop. He turned. The ambulance had driven up beside the parked car. Police were removing something from the car, wrapped in some kind of bag. They put it on a wheeled stretcher. The loaded it on the ambulance, which, in turn, drove away in a fury of red lights.
“Say,” he asked the man behind the counter. “What happened out there?”
The Greek shrugged uneasily. “Donno. They found a body.”
“A body?”
“Dead man, yeah. They found him. Kid tried to steal the car and he found the body.”
Morris couldn’t help smiling. It was terrible, of course, but there was something funny about it. The thief making a clean getaway, only to find something rotting in the back. “Did they say what the body . . um . . died of?”
Again the man shrugged. “No one told me. Here’s your sandwich.”
He took it and a can of soda to a window table. Not bad, he thought, watching the police and crime scene investigators do their thing outside. Not bad at all. A good sandwich, and a free floor show. What more could you ask?
The sandwich went down easily. Then, he sipped his soda while he watched men in uniform removing things in transparent bags from the parked car. All very interesting.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
d
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Professor Morris
Professor Morris exited the Hall and made his way down the stairs. It wasn’t easy for him. He had been overweight since childhood, and, despite the best efforts of nutritionists, a private trainer, his wife, and, even, now and then, himself . . . he remained heavy.
But he wasn’t morbidly obese. He needed to lose a lot of weight, yes, but he wasn’t any 500-pound side show attraction either. He was only, well, sixty or seventy pounds over the limit.
The strange thing was that women didn’t find him unattractive. He had never quite figured that out. It seemed perfectly logical that they should avoid him. Yet, for reasons that he didn’t pretend to understand, many women seemed to find him “cute.” He had rather frequently found himself in the arms of willowy blondes—other professors, a neighbor, graduate students.
Not his own graduate students, of course. He was no cliché. And, besides, in this day and age of sexual harassment suits, it wasn’t safe. But, other people’s graduate students, well, they were another matter entirely. He preferred sociologists.
But, truth be told, it wasn’t exactly sex he was after these days. In fact, he was reasonably faithful to his wife. No. What he wanted most from them was support. Young women, graduate students, these could be molded, positioned, trained. He could coach them ahead of conferences and then point them at his rivals, and say, “kill.” They’d do the work for him.
In fact, he had two such women prepared for today—Rosellen, who was leaving next year for study in Ireland, and Paula, the girl from the Gold Coast of Connecticut. He had primed them to attack Lester Smith Graham. Not that Lester was a particularly important target. On some level he was indifferent to the little man’s failure. But, it was always good to practice.
Which was why he was a little disappointed that Lester had behaved so strangely. Walking out like that . . .? Well, it made no sense at all, and besides, it spoiled the little drama he’d been planning. Rosellen coming in from the left flank, Ivy closing for the kill from behind.
Well, no use crying over spilt milk. He was certain that his girls would have a crack at someone else in the near future.
He came to the doors and eased out into the dying light. And so to home . . .
That was when he saw the traffic. Out in front of the Hall, on the main street that bordered the campus and the faculty-staff parking lot, was a long, slowly, crawling mass of cars . . . bumper to bumper.
What the hell?
But he wasn’t morbidly obese. He needed to lose a lot of weight, yes, but he wasn’t any 500-pound side show attraction either. He was only, well, sixty or seventy pounds over the limit.
The strange thing was that women didn’t find him unattractive. He had never quite figured that out. It seemed perfectly logical that they should avoid him. Yet, for reasons that he didn’t pretend to understand, many women seemed to find him “cute.” He had rather frequently found himself in the arms of willowy blondes—other professors, a neighbor, graduate students.
Not his own graduate students, of course. He was no cliché. And, besides, in this day and age of sexual harassment suits, it wasn’t safe. But, other people’s graduate students, well, they were another matter entirely. He preferred sociologists.
But, truth be told, it wasn’t exactly sex he was after these days. In fact, he was reasonably faithful to his wife. No. What he wanted most from them was support. Young women, graduate students, these could be molded, positioned, trained. He could coach them ahead of conferences and then point them at his rivals, and say, “kill.” They’d do the work for him.
In fact, he had two such women prepared for today—Rosellen, who was leaving next year for study in Ireland, and Paula, the girl from the Gold Coast of Connecticut. He had primed them to attack Lester Smith Graham. Not that Lester was a particularly important target. On some level he was indifferent to the little man’s failure. But, it was always good to practice.
Which was why he was a little disappointed that Lester had behaved so strangely. Walking out like that . . .? Well, it made no sense at all, and besides, it spoiled the little drama he’d been planning. Rosellen coming in from the left flank, Ivy closing for the kill from behind.
Well, no use crying over spilt milk. He was certain that his girls would have a crack at someone else in the near future.
He came to the doors and eased out into the dying light. And so to home . . .
That was when he saw the traffic. Out in front of the Hall, on the main street that bordered the campus and the faculty-staff parking lot, was a long, slowly, crawling mass of cars . . . bumper to bumper.
What the hell?
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