|
Home
|
Bio
|
Resume
|
Writings
|
Gallery
|
Links
|
Everything Else
|
Contact
The Stop Sign on Gloucester Avenue
The sun lit up the inside of Stan Kryzyk's eyelids like a
bright red police beacon He cursed his wife under his breath
for opening the blinds. After all, she knew better. He hated
to wake up to blinding light. But today, she was being
particularly rude for one reason or another; he didn't
really care. She hadn't performed her “wifely duties” in
months; he wasn’t worried about it though ... after all ...
he had Erica for that.
He groaned the groan of an old tired dude as he rolled out
of bed. Still keeping his eyes closed, he shuffled over to
close the blinds; it was too early to pick up his feet when
he walked. With a painful thud, he stubbed the middle toe on
his left foot. It was the King Louie chair she’d bought at
the auction the week before. "AH! SHIT!" he shouted hopping
and dancing in pain around the room.
"The bitch probably left that monstrosity there on purpose!"
He thought.
After closing the blinds, he plopped into the chair to
inspect his foot. He looked like a pouting child with a
fresh boo-boo. He pulled his lower lip back in as she walked
in the room to see what all the commotion was about.
"What the hell are you doing up here Stanley?” She asked. “A
Jig?"
"NO!" came the harsh reply of a spoiled brat who was having
a bad day.
"I stubbed my toe on your piece of shit chair ... "
He paused to massage it and his lip stuck back out
instinctively, then he looked up at her with a scowl.
" ... While I was trying to close the blinds that YOU left
open!"
She rolled her eyes and reminded him that it was he, not
her, who had opened the blinds last night before they went
to sleep. She also backed up the defense with the fact that
he had done so to point out to her that “ ... tomorrow we
would have a full moon.”
She breezed out the door shaking her head ... it was
pointless to argue with him.
Rebecca Kryzyk's life was coming apart before her very eyes
... How could this be? Stanley was such a great guy, he
always had a smile and a kiss for her and he was usually up
to some sneaky act of kindness. He loved to see the look of
surprise on her face when he brought her flowers or a
present.
At least that’s what he had always told her ...
At least that’s what she liked to remember ...
Now, it seemed ... he didn't have a heart at all.
Rebecca fought back a tear as she arranged the flowers in
the huge, hand-painted vase on the landing of the staircase.
The kids wiped them out, without fail, every morning on
their way downstairs to breakfast and she wouldn't want him
to see a bad flower arrangement. She had loved him since
childhood in their small neighborhood across town. That
seemed like light-years ago and ever since he had bought
this old mansion, she’d never felt like things were the
same. She couldn't figure out if it was the fame and
fortune, or the removal of himself from his old surroundings
but, something had changed in him for sure ... and it was
not good.
She hurried the children along with their breakfast and
noticed with motherly concern that both hadn't said much
this morning. In fact they hadn't even fought amongst
themselves, a sure sign "Somthin' was a brewin'”.
Stan ambled down the stairs and bumped the flower
arrangement in the huge hand-painted vase on the landing of
the stairs. He brushed and inspected his sweater for foliage
remnants as he mumbled something about her putting that
there on purpose too. He slowed as he passed the fish tank
and tried to see if this Beta was the new one or the old
one. He hadn't had time to finish watching the "Battle
Royal”, as he liked to call it; He had to get upstairs and
catch his nightly call from Erica.
It seemed the new blue Beta he brought home last night was
giving the old one a run for his money.
“How stupid to put such a small "feminine" fish in such a
large tank. ‘Becca had to be out of her mind". He thought.
Stan fought the idea tooth and nail until she explained what
kind of fish it was ...
"Rumble Fish, Huh?" He replied, and from that day forward
his evil game of dropping in opponents in her absence was
one of his greatest delights.
“She's so stupid, she's never even noticed! "He thought to
himself as he started to limp his way into the kitchen. When
he saw that no one was paying attention, he let out a
suppressed "ooooo, aaaaah" in sync with his over-dramatized
limp. "You o.k. Stanley?" Rebecca inquired.
"You KNOW I'm not! ... I think I broke a couple of toes on
that damned chair! I can hardly walk!"
The children got up in unison and headed for the garage
door.
"We'll be waiting in the car for you Daddy." Angelica said
in a somber, little tone that showed her fear for her dad’s
apparent mood. Her eyes never met his. Little Stan was even
quieter as he spoke on his way out the door, "I hope your
foot gets better Daddy."
"Damn it ‘Becca!" He spewed slapping his hand on the table.
"I've got to take them again?" She spun around with a fire
in her eye and proceeded to give him a full two-minute piece
of her mind. Meanwhile, he rubbed the sting from his tender
hand. "Stanley Archibald Kryzyck!" she began ... He didn't
hear much of the next part as he drifted off into a daydream
about how much he hated his name ...
And he hated it when she reminded him he had the same middle
name as his great grandpa ... he hated the whole name. He
remembered all the bullies in grade and middle school who
made fun of him constantly ... "Sad Sak!"(A takeoff on his
initials)
"Archie-Fartchie!'
"Staaaan-lee!" ...
He’d heard them all ... and he heard them a lot.
Why did his Great Grandpa have to have such a geeky name?
Why did his dad have to give him such a curse?
He so much preferred his pen name ... Stan Priest.
It had such a nice ring to it ... Romantic ... mysterious
... it fit him he thought ... But just then, her lecture
came back into focus when she stepped in front of his face
and asked if he'd heard a word that she had said.
"How could I not?" he shot back at her ... "The friggen'
fish in the pond up the road could hear YOU yellin'!" She
started to say something else, but he cut her off ...
"Can't you just be nice to me in the morning?" he pleaded.
"Nice?" she interjected. "You mean like getting our kids up,
dressed and fed while you sleep?"
He opened his mouth but she was already speaking again.
"Not to mention the fact that I do this after you shut the
alarm off instead of hitting the snooze bar ... By the time
I wake up, I'm running late for work!"
He knew what was coming next ... You learn these things when
you get into the same fight over and over again. He stood up
and began to shout while he lightly tapped his palm with the
back of his other hand. "We've been through this time and
again ‘Becca, if we put the alarm on your side of the bed
and you're not there to shut it off, then I have to roll all
the way to your side of the bed to get to it ... and I HATE
that!"
But she had also been in the same ring with the same
opponent many times before, and she wasn't going to let him
off that easy.
"Well if I didn't have to drive an hour and a half to work
every day ... EACH WAY ...!"
“Here it comes again.” he thought ... Her words came off in
a cadence like she'd said them a thousand times before ...
She had.
"I still can't believe that I worked so hard to make my
decorating business a success to put you through college!"
She pleaded.
He interjected to the best of his ability ..."And I told you
I'd pay you back one day, didn’t I?"
She blew up at his statement because he made her lose her
train of thought and then, in frustration, she began to
scream ..."MY FAMILY! YOUR FAMILY! ... MOST OF OUR
FRIENDS!... "
This was the part he hated most ... "They all told me your
writing career would never amount to anything!" The veins in
her forehead were bulging out a little more with each word.
"Did I listen? ... NO!!
I believe in you I said ...
He's gonna be wonderful I said ...
EIGHT YEARS LATER ...
Eight YEARS later ...YOU GET A BREAK!
And was it some grand novel that'll be turned into a movie?
Was it a literary masterpiece reveled by scholars the world
over?
Or was it even an award-winning children’s story?
OF COURSE NOT!
NOOOOOO, my husband writes trashy dime store novels that
he's so ashamed of, he had to CHANGE HIS NAME to do it!”
This is where she usually took a breath and he dove on the
opportunity to try and save himself ...
"You know those agent people made me do that ... "
He gave his most pitiful sad look ...
"They said no one would buy a book from "STANLEY ARCHIBALD
KRYZYCK!” He looked pitiful.
"I hate using an alias and you know it sweetums!" ... He was
doing his best to act like the old Stan but she just wasn't
buying it today.
"So is this the part where you try and tell me you bought me
this house as repayment for my efforts?"
She paced around the kitchen and wrung her hands as she
struggled for the perfect and yet new line that might make
him see her side of things.
"I didn't want this house and you didn't hear a word I said
that day you called from the bank."
She stopped pacing and stared straight at him ... she felt
she might be on to something.
"You wanted this house just so you could take that stupid
road to and from town ... Couldn’t you have found another
road ... on OUR side of town? "If she was on to something,
she lost it ... She was out of breath and felt overwhelmed
with futility as she spun around to hide the tears welling
up in her eyes.
Never one to miss a shot at a downed opponent, Stan came
back full force with, "Swee-pee ... You know I write my best
stuff on that romantic old road ... I wrote my first
published piece on that road!"
She took one last shot at him just to make him hurt a little
...
"Piece? PIECE? "Fields of Sin"? You call that a piece?” She
laughed as mean as she could, then finished her attack with;
"Oh, it's a piece alright ... A piece in the hayloft ... a
piece in the basement ... a piece in the cab of a combine
... a piece in the old church house for crying out loud!”
She was so exasperated; she was losing her breath. Her words
got farther and farther apart as she finished her brutally
truthful attack ...
“You took a bunch of your perverted sexual fantasies and you
put them to work on a farm!
You took six years of schooling and you tied all the
characters together with a really cheesy story line that let
them have sex every four pages!"
She had said so much she wondered for a moment if he had
tuned her out like he did so often.
He said nothing and she didn't give him one moment to do so
...
"A seventeen year-old with his hormones all a raging could
write that drivel!” She screamed, palms up,
“When are you going to make me proud and write something we
can show our families?" She pleaded.
Stan had heard enough ... he turned without saying a word
and went out the garage door ...
How could she not appreciate what she had? He thought.
Why was it so bad to make his money this way? She had
everything she needed.
Big deal she had a great business ... couldn't she think of
him for one minute?
He loved that road ... it let his mind wander. When he
talked his first sleazy story into the mini disc recorder
that she had bought him for their anniversary, he was on
that road. That road let his mind wander just far enough
from reality to let his creative juices flow. Big deal they
were dime store novels ...
He had made over three million dollars on selling only five
manuscripts. A good agent, four or five scripted, risqué'
radio interviews and VOILA! Instant best-selling author! So
what if he spent almost two million on buying and fixing up
this old place. He could sell the back half of the property
for that matter. The kids didn’t need all that room to play
anyway ... besides it would be a lot less wear and tear on
his new riding lawnmower. If he sold just a few more
manuscripts, he could stop writing such fluff and get on to
his biggest piece yet ...
Or not ... Perhaps he would just grab Erica, drain most of
the savings account and head down to Costa Rica or Jamaica
maybe.
Hell, with that kind of money ... why would he be worried
about pleasing the wifey anyway?
O.K. so he hadn't sold a 'script in two and a half years ...
the old bags and trailer trash were bound to buy his next
one, he dreamed.
As they rolled up Gloucester Avenue, the tires of the shiny
new Caddy hissed over the wet blacktop ... They sounded like
sizzling bacon to little Stan. "We sure have been getting a
lot of rain, haven't we Dad?” His timid voice was lost in
the cavernous backseat. Stan wouldn't have heard him anyway.
He was checking his voicemail on the cell phone. He wanted
to hear when he was going to meet with Erica tonight. He
wanted to hear from his agent that he had sold again. He
wanted to hear from his secretary that a royalty check had
arrived at his office. Anybody that would bring him good
news or cheer and make him forget about the morning he was
having.
The only message there though was from his old grade-school
pal Roy on the county commission.
He never really cared for Roy ... but, he was the ticket for
Stan’s latest pet project and he was calling to confirm
their breakfast appointment for nine-thirty. Stan looked at
his watch and then shook his head and sighed as he
California stopped at the sign he hated so much.
A small smirk crept across his lips as he stared at the stop
sign in distain.
"All in good time my little pretty ... All in good time. "He
thought.
Stan winced at the splash of muddy water that covered the
hood and windshield as he drove through the puddle in front
of Angelicas school. "Ahhh, Christ!” He said under his
breath.
"When I come home tonight I want you two to wash Daddy’s car
inside and out, you hear?"
There was a long silence in the car as the siblings pondered
the last three-hour car detailing fiasco.
"Do we get twice the allowance for doing it twice in one
week Daddy?" Angelica said in her best little angel voice.
For her appearance, her name fit her like a glove. But
Angelica Kryzyck was approaching that age where you begin to
see through the smokescreen adults confuse children with all
too often.
When his reply came back as a command that they will do what
he says, WHEN he says it, she turned her eyes out the window
and thought of her mom.
Angelica took a deep, hopeful breath and began the plea she
had practiced the entire evening before ...
"Dad, I need some money to get a prom dress ... It's coming
up in two weeks and if I don't go, I'll feel like the
biggest loser in the school."
He turned to her impatiently and retorted "There's a
“help-wanted” sign on the door to Sally’s diner, why don't
you go fill out an application and see if you can get a job
there after school or on weekends? You know, nobody ever
handed me anything when I was your age."
She started to reply but she was afraid he would see her
crying.
He had no patience for tears ... and he usually only got
madder at the first sign of them.
"Thanks for the ride Dad." was all she said closing the door
and running into her school as the rain, like her tiny tears
of frustration, began to fall hard and fast.
Stan looked across the street at his son’s school and then
let out a long impatient sigh as he looked back at little
Stan. "I guess you want me to drive you over there ...
besides if you caught a cold your mom would kill me in my
sleep!" After checking his watch once again, Stan muddled
the Caddy though the traffic jam of school buses and doting
parents. When he realized that the drive around the circle
to the drop-off point would take a while, he turned to him
in the rearview and said in his most convincing voice,
"I think the rain let up son, you think you could make it up
there without getting TOO wet? "
The little guy could barely make out the front of the school
through the rain. He shivered at the thought of running
through it. He tried to prolong his warm dry ride with a
question of his own.
"Dad, you remember you said I could play football?"
He didn't wait for a reply and he followed right through
with the meat of his query.
“They told us in gym class yesterday that if we want to play
football in Angelicas school next year that we have to go to
summer football camp starting the second week of vacation. I
was hoping ..."
Stan looked at his watch and shook his head, interrupting
the boy.
"Can you get to the point there kiddo, I've got an important
meeting to get to."
The young boy’s hopes fell into the pit of his stomach as he
uttered the punch line he too had practiced all morning in
his head to deliver. He felt defeated even before he spoke
...
"I need a hundred and nine-teen dollars for tuition,
insurance and equipment ... If I don't go to the ..." Stan’s
voice rattled the vents in the car as he proceeded to
explain to the boy how much he’d paid in taxes last year and
how THAT should pay for his gear to play football. He said
that they could discuss it later, but the little man knew it
would never happen. No one could play the "I'm busy right
now, Son" game, like his dad. He opened the door without
warning and made a beeline for the front of his school.
Stan looked puzzled yet relieved as he watched his son run
towards the school and vanish in the deluge that was now
blanketing the schoolyards like a fog. He turned onto the
main drag and headed for Sally’s.
All the parking spaces that were anywhere close to the
diner’s awning were taken. Stan cursed under his breath and
looked at his watch again ... "Shit-nine-forty! ... If he's
not in here I'm gonna scream! ... I waited three weeks for
this meeting! If I missed him because of those snotty-nosed
little brats I'm gonna kill someone!"
He whipped the car into a handicap space right up front and
hopped out of the car like the rain was going to make him
melt. As he walked through the door, the first thing he
noticed was the absence of his favorite little hostess ...
Erica.
He scanned the whole room, then the hallway leading to the
restrooms. She was nowhere to be seen.
“Ah well, maybe that’s why she hadn't called yet ...” He
thought. ” ... She probably stayed home sick.”
Sally took a look at Stan and snatched up the cordless phone
as she went behind the counter and disappeared into the
kitchen.
The diner seemed awfully busy for such a dreary day and the
smell of bacon grease and coffee filled the air. Roy waived
his arms frantically and Stan forgot about Erica as his
other major motive kicked into play. "Well, HEY there Roy
ole buddy, how's the wife and kids?" His voice couldn't have
been more plastic if Tupperware had made it.
Roy Justice was a strapping big man, a farming man, and he
looked a little uncomfortable in his dark blue store-bought
suit. He fidgeted with the tight collar almost constantly.
The bright red tie was just a little too thin for a man of
his girth. It looked like it had been tightend and loosened
far too many times today.
"Well, I've spoken to my colleagues on the council and we're
pretty sure we can make this thing happen for you there,
Stan." He spoke while he shoveled another forkful of
biscuits and gravy into his mouth.
"Pretty sure? ... What do you mean ... Pretty sure?” Stan
snapped, as he motioned the already busy Sally to his still
empty coffee cup.
"You said if I took care of you, you would take care of me
... didn't you?"
Roy swallowed a big gulp of coffee to wash down his b&g and
then held out his coffee cup to Sally just as she got to the
table. Stan looked at him like a greedy kid who just watched
the bully get the last piece of apple pie. Sally then
turned, filled Stan’s cup and asked if he'd like his usual.
"Not today baby, but your phone number would be nice."
Stan’s grin was as perverse as his tone of voice. She left
the table without wasting her breath on a reply. Roy set his
fork down and grabbed five packs of sugar from the bowl. He
stacked them up in his hand and tore them open all at once.
As he poured them into his cup, he began to speak again.
"Well now you know Stan, changing stop signs and whatnot
takes city planners and traffic engineers and then there’s
the ..." Stan’s morning had gone bad enough. This was not
what he wanted to hear.
"Roy, can you do it or not?" He interrupted; it almost
killed him not to shout.
"Like I said, if you hold up your end of the bargain; I
don't see any problems. BUT ... "
He stared up at Stan." ... You know how politics go ...
nothing’s guaranteed."
Stan reached in his coat pocket and retrieved the five
crisp, new hundred-dollar bills that he had withdrawn from
the bank the day before. He placed them neatly in the menu
and slid it across the table. Roy, still chewing his next
bite of b&g, nodded his head while he placed the bills in
the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Tell me something Stan." He asked, "Why is it so imperative
that you get this sign swapped around?"
Stan reached out with a mischievous grin grabbing Sally’s
leg. She slapped his hand and threw the bill on the table.
She motioned like she was going to pour hot coffee on him
and then turned away to another table.
Stan picked up the check and looked at Roy; this time like a
guy who’d just won the football pool.
"I do my best writing on that road. You just wouldn't
believe how many story lines I've lost pulling up to that
stop sign. It breaks my concentration. Now imagine the
stories your wife could read if I didn't have that stupid
thing there, you know? ... Besides, Gloucester is over ten
miles long ... And Winston Street is less than a mile ...
Why make someone on the LONG road stop?"
Roy shook his head in amazed agreement and then asked Stan
if he'd remembered the other part of their deal ...
He hadn't ... until now.
"I'll tell you what, the day they switch the stop sign, I'll
be out to your house with an entire set of my books for your
wife." Roy cocked his head to remind Stan that he was still
forgetting something ...
"And, of course, they'll all be autographed."
Roy stood up grinning and shook Stan’s hand, then started to
dig in his pockets.
"Oh no, my friend, this ones on me" Stan said, as he waived
his platinum Visa around in the air.
"Well, let me get the tip then." Roy said, still rummaging
around in his pockets.
"I wouldn't hear of it big guy. Now, the rain has stopped;
why don't you head on out before it starts up again?" Roy
nodded and headed for the door. Stan turned and threw eight
singles down for a $7.44 bill.
His only thought was “How could Roy eat so much?”
Stan felt his day go from bad to good to worse when he saw
the ticket on his windshield.
"AWWW CHRIST! Can you BELIEVE this? We don't even HAVE
handicaps in this back-ass country town!" He looked back at
Sally just in time to see an evil grin leave her face. He
scraped up the soggy ticket and threw it on the passenger’s
seat, then peeled out as he left the diner parking lot.
His mind was brewing up a way to get even with Pete the cop
for picking on him.
"Well, I only have two more fires to put out and I'm outta
here for the day!" He thought out loud to himself as he
turned down the alleyway behind his offices. He always
parked back here because it was less of a walk than from the
parking garage. He looked down the alley and saw a bag lady
scrounging around a dumpster. Suddenly, he had a flash for
his next piece ... "Lust in the alley".
"Not bad. Not bad" He thought. In the elevator, he flailed
his arms like he was having convulsions ...
His face in a tight grimace like he’d just won the grand
prize ...
“I can write in this down and out actress/model who shows
the bums that they can get some lovin' too!”
His ego was feeling rather inflated as he blew into his
office like a storm.
His thick, perverse wind swirling around his latest
secretary.
Heather was a sweet looking blonde that Stan had hired in a
bar on her looks alone.
Who cared about her office skills if he could get in her
pants? But, that day had not come in weeks and, like the
last poor girl he had hired, then fired; he had given her
the ultimatum ... put out or get out.
She looked at him nervously from her chair and told him, in
her best professional voice, that he had three messages. He
took the messages and grabbed her hand rather firmly.
He pulled her face close to his and reminded her of the talk
they had yesterday and how she had better make up her mind
by the end of the week ...
He let her go and she turned her eyes away from him and
began to type.
Neither one noticed that there wasn’t any paper in the
typewriter ...
Stan sauntered off to his office whistling a strange, eerily
happy tune.
He was looking over his messages as he walked ...
Rebecca, ten A.M... . He tossed it on the floor ...
His agent, ten-twenty A.M ... He tossed it on the floor as
well ...
ERICA! That was what he was hoping for!
Maybe this day would brighten up after all.
The message read simply: "Sorry I missed you at breakfast.
My car wouldn't start this morning. Please call me." Stan
plopped into his high-backed, winged, leather office chair
and began to spin around in it like a child on an amusement
ride. He stopped spinning only when he noticed he hadn't
closed the door all the way. He jumped up and kicked the
door shut. He danced over and hit the speed dial on the
cordless as he returned to his desk.
"Hello?" Came the breathy voice of the young redhead on the
other end of the phone.
"Hi my little lovin's!" Stan spouted in his best baby voice.
"Did your car go broke-broke?"
There was a short silence on the other end, and then she
came back with the same type of baby voice ...
"Yes, and I'm very saaaad ... It made me miss my wookwooks
... Will you come get me so we can play? I suuuuuure miss my
wookywook."
She purred like a cat for about ten seconds and Stan started
to come unglued.
"I miss you a whole lot too, my babes ... Would you like to
go out for some din-din a little later? "Sorry." Came the
reply "My Mumsie’s already making me din-din ... But I'm
going to have YOU ... for deeee-zert!" Her statement ended
in an evil, knowing laugh.
The mention of her mother reminded Stan of her age ...
Twenty-one ... Half his age. He had met her at the diner and
she was so enthralled by his writings ... They were, it
seemed, her first encounter with erotica and she
flirtatiously told him how sexually talented the author of
such steamy stories must be.
In less than three hours he had her at the small inn on the
west side of town.
She was too inexperienced to notice just how untalented he
really was.
They agreed to meet at the old railroad yard just around the
corner from her house.
He was already trying to think of an angle to get in her
pants before they went to the drive-in.
She would never put out there anyway, he thought. She was
scared someone would catch them and they had had that
discussion many times before.
"I'm gonna go home to get all fresh for my baby-cakes and
then I'll see you at the rail yard at say ... 7:45?” This
would give him more than an hour to get some pre-movie
action. "Ooooo ..." She came back all breathy again. “ ...
It's all so ... so ... cloak and dagger ... God this makes
me so hot ..."
Stan heard his door squeak and looked up to see his agent
standing in the doorway ... He hadn’t heard him knock ...
twice.
"Hun, I've got an important meeting to attend to ... I'll
call you back ... "
He hung up without hearing her say good bye.
"And to what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Cook?"
"Save it for the chickies Stano, this is business.”
He stared at the floor as he almost cautiously made his way
over to the small plastic chair in front of Stan's desk. He
hated coming here. He had met with Stan many times before
...
He didn’t like his writing ... or him.
"Listen," He continued, " ... The publishing house is
telling me that they are going to have to drop us if you
don't deliver some sellable product here soon."
He sounded like a dad trying to explain to a child why they
were selling his puppies.
Stan spent the rest of his afternoon telling the agent about
the new story he had written and how he could read it just
as soon as he proofed it. The agent didn't feel any better
as he left the office ...
But then, he never felt good in the presence of Stan Kryzyck
anyway.
He looked at his watch and calculated that he needed to
leave now if he wanted to:
Get home ...
Have the kids clean the car ...
Eat his dinner ...
Get a shower and get out to the railyard in time ... in time
to maul her before the movie.
"There's a call for you on line three." The voice on his
intercom almost made him jump out of his skin. "MMMM, line
three huh?" He knew who that was.
He only gave that number to little hotties and since he had
no other irons in the fire ...
It must be ERICA!
"How come you didn't call me back, pumpkin? I’ve been
missing my James Bond all day ..."
"Me too, my little Mata Hari ... And when I get my hands on
you ... oooooo there's gonna be fire in the sky! But I still
have some fires to put out ... 7:45 right ...?”
"I'm counting the minutes!" She replied.
"I'm gonna go now! Kisses!” She couldn’t hear his pathetic
insincerity.
Stan thought he heard her say “Kisses!” as he hung up the
phone. He sighed and bolted out the door.
He cupped Heather’s breasts from behind in one firm single
motion, holding them so tight it almost hurt. Then he bit
her right ear as he reminded her through his teeth that she
had two more days to decide how things were going to be
around here ...
She tensed up as hard as a board and didn’t say a word. She
was frozen in fear.
He bopped out of the office smelling her perfume on his
chin, thinking how sweet it was going to be when he finally
had his way with her ... The dream flashed in his twisted
thoughts all the way down to the alley. He picked up the
mini-disc recorder and plugged it into the lighter socket as
he began to steer the Caddy towards Gloucester Avenue.
Stan set the cruise control and began to ramble his new
story onto the mini-disc. This one would have to be built
fast ... His agent’s ultimatum echoed in his head. He
started babbling the story by having the main character,
"Heather" getting nailed by a movie producer on a casting
couch ...
"When she reads that I used her name in one of my books,
she'll be so flattered, there's no way she'll resist me
then." He thought to himself. An evil grin was beaming
across his face.
Stan stared down Gloucester Avenue and kept rambling his
twisted smut like a kid enjoying his favorite song. The road
was almost perfectly straight and surrounded by the most
beautiful rolling farm and pastureland this country has ever
tossed up. He could see the stop sign in the distance and
almost lost his place when he concentrated on it a little
too long.
He rambled a segue of the young actresses descent from
rising star to street bum and couldn't believe what was
about to happen ...
He stabbed the brakes and cursed a slew of epithets at the
old woman in the full size pick-up truck.
"Damn you, you old bag!" He shouted. "Why don't you watch
where you’re driving?"
It wasn't her fault ...
He had done one of his infamous California rolling stops ...
She was just driving along on a through street, minding her
own business ...
Stan didn’t notice that she had to pull over to regain her
composure ...
His concern now was that when he played back his
disc-recorder to the voice recognition on his computer, he
would have to stop both machines to edit out his tongue
lashing of the elderly driver.
He rambled on and on all the way to his driveway.
As he turned off the mini-disc, he had more lurid thoughts
about his meeting with Erica this evening ...
That would be just what he needed ... to inspire the rest of
his new seedy tale.
When Stan opened the garage door and limped into the
kitchen, he looked around and began to huff and puff ... He
was looking around for someone to coddle him ... his lower
lip protruding like a thorn.
Something wasn't right ...
He couldn't quite pinpoint it.
But ... one thing was for sure ... he was alone.
With his hands on his hips and a stomp of his left foot, he
cursed out his displeasure at the empty house.
"She must have taken the little terrors to their Gramma’s
house for dinner." He saw the l.e.d. flashing on the
answering machine but there was no time. He had to hurry if
he was going to have enough time to shower and get back to
the all night car wash before his tryst with the Redhead.
"DAMN IT BECCA!" he thought, "COULDN'T YOU JIVE WITH MY
PLANS ... JUST ONCE?"
He could wave some hot dogs for dinner, but the car wash was
going to push his time envelope to the limit. He bounded up
the stairs two at a time. At the top of the stairs, Stan
noticed that his computer had been left on all day ... He
had left it on after checking his e-mail.
"Damn those brats!" He cursed, "I swear to God, I'm
uninstalling those stupid games TOMORROW!”
He continued huffing, ”Computers are for work and if they
think they have time to play games then they're in for quite
a shock when they see next week’s chore list! I’ve told them
a thousand times to shut this thing off when they’re
through!”
He simmered down only long enough to fire up the voice
recognition program and start it to recording what he’d
"written" on the way home.
He returned to his grumblings as he hopped into the shower.
Again ... he felt something strange as he showered, but he
still couldn't quite pinpoint it.
No matter how he twisted and writhed under the stream of the
shower ... he didn’t feel clean ...
It was strange ... like the water didn’t feel right ... Even
when he opened his mouth and filled it, then spit it back
out ... It didn’t taste right. It was dry and when it hit
his tongue, instead of feeling soft and warm, it felt like
stinging little pinpricks.
The sound of the water on the tile and granite floor was
muffled ... like he had water in his ears.
The seemingly deadening of his senses made him realize that
it was an instinct he was never aware of before. For a
moment he felt like he wasn't alone ... or maybe that he was
too alone ...
He quit thinking about it and turned off the shower.
Stan mimed his own words as he listened to the playback of
the disc. He hurriedly toweled off and began to vigorously
dry his now balding head with a different towel.
He sat on the edge of his desk, hovering over the player as
the moment of the cursing approached ...
He stared at the recorder as the sound of skidding tires
filled the room ...
In shock, he listened to the sound of himself saying; "Oh my
God ... NOOOOOO!"
The unmistakable terror in his voice was all too real ...
His shriek was instantly followed by a tremendous, booming
CRUNCH.
The sound of breaking glass and twisting metal was finally
silenced by the sound of escaping steam.
"WHAT IN THEE HELL IS GOIN' ON AROUND HERE TODAY? He
screamed.
He fast-forwarded ... and soon found the sound of
approaching sirens ...
Listening in terror, he heard the ambulance drivers
footsteps get closer to the microphone.
"Hey Phil ya think we can get him out?
"Naaah," Came the reply, " ... there’s no need just yet, I
checked his vitals ... I doubt he felt a thing."
There was a moment of silence and then the other voice said;
"Yeah, this one too ...” Stan could hear more steps on the
broken glass ... “She looks like she didn't have much time
left anyhow ... What a shame."
There was a long pause and then, as the sound of steam
started to dwindle, he heard the two voices discussing how
well the Caddy had held up to the impact with the large
white pick-up truck.
Stan’s heart was in his throat and his breaths were getting
shorter and shorter. The beads of moisture were not from his
shower but from the sweat that was accompanying the panic
attack he knew was about to hit him like a baseball bat.
"What is happening to me?" He thought. "Am I dreaming?"
He looked at his shaking hand as he began to hear the sound
of an approaching siren again.
One of the ambulance drivers was saying something ...
But all Stan could make out was "Maybe Pete could tell us
what happened here."
His partners reply came across somewhat sarcastic "What are
you kiddin' me? He ran the stop sign!
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out
... JEEEEZ!"
There was a moment of silence then the other guy came back
with ... "Yeah, but why?"
By this time the approaching siren had stopped and Stan
could hear the sound of a slamming car door, then the sound
of Pete the cop’s voice calling in a tow truck.
"W’atcha got fellas?" He inquired ...
"Well we're gonna need the coroner for both I'm afraid." Was
the only reply.
The sound of footsteps on broken glass was all he could hear
for about thirty seconds.
He strained to hear every sound on the disk ... He thought
it odd that the sound wasn’t muffled like it had been in the
shower. Then, Stan heard Pete calling for the coroner on his
radio ...
"That's right John ... TWO body bags!"
The words and sounds echoed in Stan’s head like an
approaching clap of thunder.
"How can this be real?”
“How can this be happening?"
He felt the panic well up inside his chest and he got up to
look around for some shred of sanity.
Then he thought about Erica ...
A sly grin crossed his lips and for a few moments, he let
his anguish go. Then, just as he took his first easy breath,
he heard the sounds of someone fumbling around with the
recorder ...
"W’addia got there Petey?" Said the first paramedic.
"It's a voice recorder ... this one is that writer from up
the road here ... He bought the old Levy mansion.
Sorry ... I thought you knew who he was." There was some
discussion on the merits of his writings and then Pete's
last words made Stans blood run cold ...
"Ah, no great loss anyway ... The guy was a jerk to my wife,
Sally, at the diner all the time ... and a lousy tipper too.
The way I see it, if he'd paid more attention to the road
and not work, he'd probably be home by now ... Well, I guess
he won't be needing this any more."
There was a soft pop on the disc ... and then silence.
Stan fast-forwarded through the rest of the disc;
desperately seeking the rest of what he had "written" ...
Nothing ... but dead air.
In panic, he threw the recorder into the wall with a crash
... Pieces went flying in every direction.
He grabbed a handful of hair with each fist and looked at
the pieces strewn around the room like trash in the stands
after a hockey game. He took a few deep breaths, but he
could not stop the frightening confusion that was slowly
overtaking him.
He looked at the clock ... "7:02?! ... SHIT!”
Desperate ... He tried to go back to his plans.
"Well, I better let the mutt out since no one else is here
to do it.”
He was trying to ignore what was going through his head.
He ran downstairs, relishing in the moment that he was able
to let go of what he had just heard.
The thought of Erica spread across his front seat was a
reality break he needed very desperately.
As he passed the huge hand-painted vase at the landing of
the stairs, he noticed that the flower arrangement was gone
...
"Isn't that strange "
It was a statement ... not a question ...
As he really didn't care if ‘Becca took the flowers to work
or what ... it just SEEMED strange.
He called out to the dog, but got no response ...
He searched the whole house and decided that the dog must
already be in the back yard.
When he opened the french double doors in the back of the
house ...
He noticed something almost immediately ... There was no
wind.
The weather fronts that had been moving through the area for
the last few hours were blowing up a storm, “ ... not
minutes ago.” He thought.
He looked around for, and called out to, the dog. But still,
he got no response.
It wasn't until he had gotten back up on the porch that he
had his second jolt of weirdness ...
He couldn't hear any birds ...
Or crickets ...
Or planes ...
In fact, in all his life, he had never experienced such
total and utter silence ...
He looked up and was suddenly covered in goose bumps ...
There wasn't a cloud in the sky!
Stan ran back in the house and tried to collect himself.
His head was beginning to throb as he bolted for the front
door.
"That stupid mutt probably dug another hole under the
fence!" he whined,
" ... And if they think I'm gonna bail him out of the pound
again, they're nuts!"
He was trying to not think about the last few minutes of his
life, when he noticed something else that made him feel one
step closer to panic.
There were no fish in the fish tank ... not dead ... not
alive ... no fish at all!
He wiped the sweat from his face and glanced around the room
...
Turning pale as he noticed that ALL the flowers ... ALL the
family photos ... Were GONE!
"Did she up and leave me?" He screamed as he squeezed his
head tight from the pain.
That was almost what he hoped for as he began to reason with
just what was happening to him.
"But why would she take the flowers?" He thought to himself.
He opened the front door and again experienced the same
strange and eerie calm of the back yard ... He called out
... but still no dog.
As he was about to close the door in silence, he noticed his
car was gone from the driveway ... Another jolt of reality.
As much as he loved that car, it was a welcome sight ... He
could call 911 and they would bring him back to the real
world. Slamming the door, he dashed towards the phone.
He felt almost comforted. He fumbled for the numbers and
stared out the front picture window hoping to see his wife
... his kids ... his neighbor ... the mutt ... ANYONE coming
up the drive.
He had just about drifted into one of his trances when he
heard a woman say something on the other end of the line ...
He didn't listen; he just blurted out; "Yes ... I'd like to
report a stolen car ... !”
There were a few moments of silence ...
And then she replied; "I'm sorry Mr. Kryzyck ... We don't
have cars here ..."
He held the phone in front of his face and yelled angrily;
"But, how did you know my name!?”
He paused for a moment ... holding the phone out in front of
his face. For the first time since he could remember, he
felt tears in his eyes. He had forgotten what they felt
like. He blinked them away and stared at the receiver. His
hand was shaking uncontrollably.
He shouted at the phone ... “I didn't tell you my name!”
He stared at it ... like it was someone he was about to
fight ...
Then all the expression left his face.
He dropped it with a thump on the new Berber carpet and
walked back towards the front door.
A strange calm overtook him as he began to accept this new
reality.
The handle was now searing hot as he closed his eyes and
opened it ...
He didn't need to look ...
He knew what was before him ...
Stanley Archibald Kryzyck took his first steps into Hell ...
And closed the door behind him.
Home
|
Bio
|
Resume
|
Writings
|
Gallery
|
Links
|
Everything Else
|
Contact |