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From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
Subject: Till Death Do Us Part part 1 of 1
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
Till Death Do Us Part
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter One
“In a child it is most distressing,” he said. I listened
unwillingly to the tone of his voice. It was a doctor’s voice. He was
self-assured and professional even as he related the unpleasant news.
I tried to hurry my steps. I was passing by the pediatric
ward. I had just completed my yearly medical exam. I was relieved to
find that I was still normal after 38 years of living.
Not hard living, mind you. I was never like that. I’m a
certified public accountant. I don’t drink or smoke. Never tried
drugs. Not much of a gigolo, I’m afraid. But I’m not gay either. I’d
be happy to find a wife provided she’s the appropriate age for me and a
virgin.
But please don’t think I’m dull. I do have a sense of fun.
For instance, when I go grocery shopping, I take a pocket calculator
along. I add up the things I’m considering buying. It helps to know
how much you’re going to spend before you get to the checkout lane.
Plus, with my calculator, I can figure the price per ounce of the
various items. You would be amazed at the savings I’ve unearthed, doing
this. Last week alone I saved $3.06 by calculating the per ounce prices
of the items I was shopping for. Generic isn’t necessarily the
cheapest, even if the the goods are packed in dull boxes, especially
when you include brand name sale prices in your calculations. So not
only did I save money, I was able to buy some brand items, which come in
nice packaging.
There was someone standing in the entryway to the pediatric
ward. A child. She was smiling at me. She was about 10, maybe 11.
I’m not an expert on children’s ages. I don’t want to be, at least not
until I have children of my own.
I tried to avoid her gaze. Children-- best not seen or heard,
especially if you’re a 38-year-old man and unmarried.
But her smile lingered. It followed me as I passed her.
“Doctor, has my daughter been molested?” I heard a woman’s
voice ask. It was anxious. I quickened my steps. No telling who might
be blamed for that-- a perpetrator, to be sure, but I wasn’t one and
didn’t want to become one. Especially with that damn girl smiling at
me.
The doctor cleared his throat.
“Fondled, perhaps,” he said.
“She’s no longer innocent?” the woman’s voice asked shrilly.
I felt the girl’s eyes in my back. An illusion, of course.
Surely she had turned her head away by now. But I didn’t want to turn
and look, to make sure. God forbid I should look at her and find myself
guilty of “lookism”! I well remembered my college days, and the
brochure we were given each semester by the Equal Opportunity Office.
“Lookism is a form of sexual harassment and is offensive and illegal.”
I rounded the corner of the hall. I felt warm. My heart was
beating fast. I could feel my pulse in my neck, throbbing. I needed to
get around just one more corner and then I would be at the elevators.
Why couldn’t they give me a medical exam someplace else? Why did they
have to do it right next to the pediatric ward? Damn hospitals!
A small girl was standing by the elevators. Her back was to
me. She had long dark hair. She was wearing a trim blouse and a skirt
that showed off the length of her legs. She had white stockings on that
stretched to her knees. Her shoes were black. They were glossy and
new.
I approached. Why did she have to be standing right in front
of the hallway elevator buttons? Gingerly I reached past her. Such
long, lovely hair. I could smell her perfume. No, that was the scent
of bubblegum. Nice smell, though. If rather childish.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled. I reached for the lowest button.
“Going down?” a young female voice asked. It was high-pitched,
merry. She turned as I reached past her head, her face. She smiled up
at me.
It was the same girl! The same one I’d passed outside the
pediatric ward! I felt an abrupt emptiness in the pit of my stomach.
My pulse quickened. Her bright eyes gazed up at me. There was a
pinkish hue in her cheeks and yet at the same time her skin was white,
flawlessly white, like fine china.
I missed the button. I pressed my thumb against the wall
instead.
“Ouch,” I said, feeling my thumb press hard against the
immovability of the wall, nearly spraining it.
“Here, let me push the button for you!” the girl offered. She
turned. Quick, so quick she moved! Nimble and light. She pressed the
red “Down” button and then turned quickly again and beamed up at me.
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
“I’m going down too,” she grinned.
“Vicky,” a woman’s voice called. It sounded distressed.
The elevator doors opened. The girl leaped in. I stepped in
after her.
“Vicky,” the woman’s voice called again. I wondered if it was
the girl’s mother. But as a normal male I wasn’t supposed to be
noticing little girls, was I? I mean, what if I began talking to her,
to ask her if that wasn’t her mother calling, and just as I began
speaking to her, her father appeared? He might think I was
propositioning her.
The elevator doors closed. I was alone in the elevator with
the girl. She stared up at me, with that infernal smile plastered
across her face. In my own face I felt the heat rising. Was I
blushing?
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.
I tried to ignore her. Children are best seen and not heard, I
reminded myself. Or, rather, not seen, at least if they’re 10 and
you’re a single, 38-year-old man!
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked again.
Nervously I shifted my feet. I glanced at her. Yes, it was
the same girl I’d seen before, in the hallway just outside the pediatric
clinic.
“Y-Yes,” I stammered, trying to be polite. Thank God there was
nobody else on this damnable elevator, who might reprove me for having a
conversation with a child whose parents I didn’t even know!
“You look like you have a big penis,” the girl said.
I was blushing fiercely now. I felt my hands begin to
tremble. I looked up at the numbers above the door. God help me! How
on earth did I, a normal male, wind up all alone on an elevator with a
10-year-old girl who knew the word penis?
“Have you ever heard of Monica?” the girl asked me.
“N-No,” I said. I stared at those numbers above the elevator
door. We were passing floor 10. Only 9 floors left...
“She sucked the President’s penis!” the 10-year-old girl beside
me said.
I was sweating now. I could feel the perspiration on my
forehead and I wondered if she could see it. She kept grinning. Her
smile was perfect. White teeth set like pearls behind ruby lips. She
moved, slightly, coming toward me. With a quickness I thought I’d
outgrown I darted sideways. The side wall of the elevator kept me from
moving farther.
“Why are you afraid? I won’t hurt you,” the little girl said
to me in her high, childish voice. Then she giggled, and it was an
ethereal laugh so wickedly high in tone that it made my skin crawl.
There was something odd about that laugh.
With my eyes fixed ahead of me like a corpse I watched the
numbers above the elevator door. 5... 4... 3... There was sweat on my
upper lip and in the palms of my hands.
She touched me. Her small fingers were cool. She wasn’t
nervous. Not at all. Her fingers began to twine about mine.
One! I felt a surge of triumph in me as I saw the number one
illuminate above the elevator doors. They slid back. A bell rang,
announcing the elevator’s arrival. I tore my hand away from hers and
hurried out. I walked as fast as decency permitted through the lobby.
I nodded to the guard sitting behind her desk. She nodded back. The
wide front doors of the hospital opened, and I felt the cool air of
early evening on my face. I inhaled. It felt good to be cool again.
By God, it felt good in my lungs too, the autumn air chilling my skin,
making me forget the cramped elevator with the little girl in it and her
precocious questions.
There was a park beyond. I had a car but I preferred taking
the bus. Perhaps it wasn’t quite normal to take the bus, most people
drove, but I liked the sense of social responsibility I felt whenever I
rode it. Of course waiting at the bus stop was a bit of a pain; you
never knew who you might have to stand there with.
I passed under the trees. The shadows were deep here in the
park, now that the sun had set. I hated it when the sun set so early.
Why couldn’t it still be summer, with its late evening sunshine? A
person could get mugged walking in the dark like this. I placed my hand
on my trousers. I felt the lump of my wallet. I whistled a tune. I
wasn’t sure what the name of the song was, or the words. I’d picked it
up from a movie. A late night movie, the kind you watch when you can’t
sleep and you don’t want anything too heavy on, just mindless
entertainment. I couldn’t remember the movie’s plot or even its main
characters now, or even its name. “Interview”, something... That’s
what it had been called. I guess I fell asleep right after the opening
credits. The musical theme of the film must have embedded itself into
my mind while I slept.
I reached the far end of the park. The street lights shone
down on me. I felt myself exhale, relieved. I stopped whistling. I
didn’t need that damn tune anymore. Now if I could only get it out of
my head. It rattled around in between my ears as I strode under the
streetlights.
The bus stop. Only one person. Well, that was fine. As long
as it wasn’t some big black dude. I always hated that. I mean, I
didn’t hate black people, I believed in equal rights and everything. I
just didn’t want to have to stand at the bus stop with them. Especially
if they were bigger than me. Or if there were two of them. That was
always a little nerve-wracking. Well, a lot nerve-wracking, let’s admit
it. Especially if they weren’t dressed in business suits like me.
Black guys in business suits were okay. Thank God blacks didn’t carry
those ghetto blasters anymore. That used to be awful, back in the 70’s.
I glanced around me. Except for the one person standing at the
bus stop, the street was empty. I hurried toward the bus stop, still
glancing around. I wasn’t looking for black dudes just then. Rather, I
was looking for bums. You know, those Vietnam hippie-type guys. They
think the world owes them a living because they spent nine months in Nam
30 years ago. I mean, I work every day, 9 to 5, doing my accounting,
and I’m supposed to give a dime to some guy because he sat on his ass in
Nam 30 years ago smoking dope? Give me a break. I wish I could say
that, just once, you know? Tell the white hippie guys off, and the
black dudes too. They should all go to an accredited four year
university like me and learn something productive, like accounting.
Then they could work every day and not have to stand around in the
street asking for money. Or playing some ghetto blaster.
I walked up to the bus stop. I glanced down at the person next
to the sign, between me and the sign. I hate it when I can’t stand
right next to the sign. I mean, it makes me nervous. Once someone was
standing next to the sign and my bus came along, but the stupid idiot
waved the bus on. I happened to be reading my Economist magazine and by
the time I looked up the bus had passed by. I couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, was that your bus?” the guy standing there, next to the
sign, had asked me. Naturally I thought he was being sympathetic so I
nodded “yes”. The next words out of his mouth were, “Say, man, I’m
really sorry about that but could I borrow a dime? I need to make a
phone call.”
Of course I told him “no”. I know what those bums do. They
ask ten or twelve people and of course some people give away a dollar,
and then they have enough for liquor and they spend the rest of the day
in some alley somewhere. Heaven in a bottle, in an alley.
I glanced at the person beside me again. Rather short, I
thought. And such long dark hair. What was some child doing standing
here all alone in the dark?
She turned. She smiled. Her eyes gleamed up at me.
“Hello,” she said.
I was speechless. I stared at her.
“Taking the bus?” she asked.
“No,” I answered.
She tugged at her skirt. Her knees bumped together. Her shiny
black shoes shifted on the pavement. Such pretty shoes. Such long
legs. I felt the wetness on my forehead again.
“I am,” she said. “Wanna ride me?”
I swear that’s how she said it. There was no “with” in that
sentence.
“No,” I said again, but my voice was weak.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.
I glanced around. How could this be happening to me? I’d left
that girl in the hall on the 14th floor, then in the elevator in the
lobby. Yet now here she was again, standing beside me, in the dark.
“I need a ride,” she said in her licorice-sweet voice.
“I-- I can’t give you a ride,” I answered.
“You look like you have a big penis,” the girl said. Her eyes
scanned my body. “And a nice pulse,” she added. Her eyes lifted from
my crotch, where I was feeling an abnormal stiffening, to my neck, where
I could feel my neck muscles tightening.
“Th- thanks,” I stammered. Just then I felt lights illuminate
my body. The police! I felt sweat in my palms and on my upper lip. I
stared ahead of me, forgetting the girl momentarily. Then I realized
the twin headlights bearing down on me were those of the bus. I looked
at the number above the windshield. My bus! With relief I watched the
bus as it pulled up to the stop. Out of courtesy I looked back again to
where the girl was, to allow her to get on first, if she wished to. But
she was gone. There was nobody there. Just the sign, standing naked
and empty. Behind me I felt the dark trees of the park, and a presence
there, somewhere. I leapt onto the bus and scrambled into a seat. The
doors of the bus closed. As the bus pulled away from the stop I gazed
out the side window, next to my seat. But the glare of the lights that
were on inside the bus cast a reflection onto the glass.
I saw a poster for a musical in the window. It was a
reflection, from a poster mounted inside the bus, above the seat
opposite mine, on the other side of the aisle.
“Crypt of the Damned,” the poster read. Dark figures stared
out at me from the poster.
“They make musicals out of the damndest things these days,” I
muttered to myself.
30
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