Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (18 page)

A buzzing sound interrupts my reading. Tory’s cell phone is vibrating, and the screen says
Office.
I give the caller time to leave a message, then I check her voice mail.

Hey, Tor. See you Monday. We need to discuss your progress on the Johnson case.

I text back:
Drivving 2 Uray now. Bardo clear. Jonson kase a wash.

Get back a text:
Don’t text and drive!

I relay the message to Tory, “Don’t text and drive.”

Her head has stopped moving, and foam bubbles from her lips. The comb has slipped out from her chignon, allowing loose strands to fall into her face.

I wish I had that head of hair.

I consult the iPad. There’s controversy regarding this topic, but according to
Wikipedia,
Native Americans learned how to scalp from Europeans. The Iroquois took up the practice with a vengeance. Doesn’t mention our local tribe, the Southern Utes.

Peeling the skin from the skull without ruining the hair is a challenge. The hair is caked with blood. Needs a good wash and conditioner. When I’ve finished scalping Tory, to avoid excessive dripping and spatter, I employ my Courtesy Clerk skills and double bag her head.

Conveniently, her car keys and her wallet are in her briefcase. I plan to pull her SUV around to the walkway when it’s dark and people are holed-up in their condos, glued to their flat screens. Then I’ll drag the body down the stairs, wrapped in a tarp, of course, dump it in the wheelbarrow the super uses for gardening, and wheel it to the SUV. After the corpse is loaded (this one is definitely a corpse, not a cadaver, unless you count scalping as dissection), I’ll throw my bike in back. The road to Ouray is steep and winding, rocky ravines off the shoulders, hairpin switchbacks without guardrails, but it’s mostly downhill coming back. Not many people travel it at night.

I know the perfect spot to stage an accident.

I Google:
making a car explode,
and a quick search informs me that the impact from plunging several hundred feet onto jagged rock should sever the fuel line and damage the tank enough to make the SUV go up in flames. A full tank of fuel should ensure a serious inferno. I’ll buy gas, using Tory’s credit card, before we head up the mountain. According to this article (and shows I’ve watched on TV) it takes a long time to incinerate a body, but even if the SUV doesn’t explode, the corpse should burn enough to eradicate evidence.

Meanwhile, I’ll clean up this mess and fry a burger.

K
rista texted me again. She and Tracy want to meet at The Quiet Lady for happy hour next Friday. I can’t go. I have to work that evening. Besides, I’m not up for the Dynamic Duo. Krista says she’s worried about me. I never showed for anatomy class. Apparently, that put her do-gooder gene into a tailspin and, I know from experience, if I keep ignoring her she’ll get more persistent. But I haven’t texted back. I don’t know what to say to her, so I’ll pretend her message got lost in cyberspace.

I love cyberspace. It’s nebulous. Tactile communication gets sticky, messy, and way too personal.

That’s why I’ve been avoiding Marcus. (Since our session, I can’t bring myself to call Marcus
Doctor anything
.) When I see him, in the parking lot of our complex or down in the courtyard, I hide. The guy might think I’m Borderline, but he’s psycho.

I think about him all the time.

Despite his unorthodox methods, or maybe because of them, he
gets
me. It’s like he sneaks inside my head, peers into dark corners and sees stuff
I
don’t even notice. In other words, he gives good head.

Okay, I admit it. I’m attracted to his brain. I guess you could call it a biochemical obsession. Our programming synchs, our synapses connect, we’re tuned to the same frequency. We don’t need the Internet, 4G, Facetime, or smoke signals to communicate.

Wouldn’t it be great if brains could live forever?

There’s this scientist/techie guy, Ray Kurweil, who says by 2040 we’ll be able to upload our brains to a computer. I figure by 2041 we’ll all be robots. So if you make it to the 2040s, you’ll never get decrepit like my father.

He left me another weird message. About socks. Apparently his are all mismatched, so he’s forced to wear brown with blue, but that’s not what bothers him. What bothers him is he’s
afraid
of socks, hates wearing them because they smother his feet and his soul can’t breathe. It’s not the first time that I’ve heard this complaint. On several occasions I’ve tried to explain it’s soles, not souls, but he insists his life force permeates his body through the bottom of his feet. When I’ve suggested he forget about the socks and go without, he tells me if he goes sockless his shoes will become angry and trample him.

I’m hoping for a stampede.

My phone beeps, notification that I’ve received yet another text from Krista:
Yes or no?

She gets like that, demanding. If I don’t text her back, she’ll keep texting till I say yes. Or worse, she’ll call me. I don’t have time to talk, don’t
want
to talk to her. I’m busy stalking Marcus.

To get Krista off my back, I text:
Werk Fday
.

Speaking of Marcus, his receptionist called yesterday wanting to schedule my next appointment. Guess the insurance went through. Who knew they cover getting fucked.

For the past week I’ve been doing surveillance, observing the courtyard. Today I’ve been watching from my living room all morning, standing at the picture window, hidden by the curtain. Sometimes Marcus comes home for lunch. If he doesn’t show up soon, chances are I won’t see him today, because it’s almost time for me to go to work. I know the time without glancing at the clock, because the mail lady—mailwoman, whatever she’s called—is down in the courtyard stuffing letters into the open mouths of postboxes. Wondering if there’s any mail for me, I head downstairs to check.

Today is one of those crisp, blue sky Colorado days. On days like this I want to ride my bike through the valley, cruise along the river, blow off work. It sucks to be responsible.

I say hi to the postmistress (I think that’s her official title) and unlock my letterbox. I’m shuffling through bills and advertisements when I hear my name. Turning, I see Marcus.

He looks good—clean shaven and neatly pressed.
Damn.
Why do my legs feel like gummy worms? Would I feel this uncomfortable sensation in my gut if I were a robot? I don’t think so. If I were a simulacrum, the synthetic humans Philip Dick writes about, would I be short-circuiting? Being a real person sucks. My stomach’s doing somersaults and making strange noises. I wonder if I’m hungry.

Lowering my new Louis Vuitton sunglasses, I give Marcus the seductive look I’ve been practicing.

His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Nice shades, Sadie. Have you been avoiding me?”

I shake my head.

“You haven’t called my office.”

This morning I did body maintenance—washed the hair, applied mascara to the lashes, glossed the lips—so Sadie’s looking good. Now I’m working on her programming, so her image matches what comes out of her mouth.

Arching an eyebrow (do you know how much practice it takes to arch
one
eyebrow?), I say, “I want you to be my friend.”

“Of course I’m your friend, Sadie.”

“I want you to be my
friend.
”

The sparkle in his eyes dims.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You’re my
patient
.”

“I quit therapy.” Avoiding his gaze, I shuffle through my mail. Two credit card statements, an advertisement from a car dealership, and the new
Victoria’s Secret
catalogue. Hiding the catalogue under bills, I change the subject, “Where’s Caramel?”

“In California with her mother. She gets Carmela for the school year. I get her for the summer and Christmas. Why have you quit therapy?”

“That must be difficult for Caramel.”

“I think you should give the process a chance.”

“It sucks, not having two parents.”

“She
has
two parents, Sadie.”

The more uncomfortable he looks, the more at ease I feel.

“Why do you think your marriage failed?”

“Why does any marriage fail?” Marcus glances at his watch. “I’ve got to go—”

“Come over for dinner Wednesday?”

“I don’t think—”

“I’m a good cook.”

“I know, but—”

Victoria Secret
slips from my hands and falls onto the ground. A woman in a lace bra and thong looks up from the lawn. Before I can grab it, Marcus scoops up the catalogue and hands it back to me. Our fingers touch.

“Just a neighborly supper. Six thirty?”

“All right, I’ll stop by for a little while.”

He walks toward the parking lot, hesitates, keeps walking.

I watch his ass and wonder, if I use priority shipping, will my purchase arrive before our dinner date?

The spell breaks when my cell phone rings.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“I can’t find my shoes.”

“Have you tried the closet?”

No point in mentioning that I haven’t been to his place since Christmas. My last visit did not go well. When I cooked him dinner, he spat out the meat and accused me of poisoning him. When I was a kid, he used to do that to my mother. No doubt she would have killed him, if he hadn’t killed her first. Anyway, I’m not a fan of Phoenix. It’s a giant traffic jam and hot as hell. No wonder my father moved there. It suits him.

He’s yelling about loafers.

I’m not sure if he’s referring to me, or shoes, but I hang up.

I rode my bike to work as usual, and clouds rolled in without warning, so I got caught in the rain. Colorado is like that in August, clear mornings, cloudy afternoons, and then it pours all night. No one complains, because we need the moisture. But now I’m wet.

As I walk into the store, I notice a display of corn outside, another at the entrance, a third by cut fruit in Produce.

The remodel is nearly finished. The Grand Opening is scheduled to coincide with Labor Day weekend at the end of the month, two weeks from now. The construction crew is done with Deli, Bakery, Meat, and now they’re working in Produce—switching out the floor from concrete to wood for the rustic look, replacing display cases, remodeling shelves. They’ve installed a new sprinkler system for the wet rack. Now, every time you try to grab a bag of carrots or head of lettuce, you risk a thunderstorm. Happens to me all the time when I check sell-by dates.

The Produce Manager keeps adding jobs to my routine—checking sell-by dates and doing markdowns, facing lettuce, and now I’m in charge of dried fruit and nuts. He told me raisins are my
number one
priority. First thing each day, I’m supposed to grab the cart and work the back stock, which means fill holes and use a handheld scanner to determine what we’ve got and what we need to order. It’s a big responsibility. And, frankly, it’s a challenge.

Most produce carts are sturdy, so they can support heavy boxes of onions, potatoes, squash, macho stuff that requires muscle to stock. At all times these carts
must
carry a crate of bananas (our number one seller), a spray bottle of water, and box of paper towels for cleaning. Not my cart. The fruit and nut cart is a cockeyed U-boat stacked with off-kilter, mismatched boxes: raisins, prunes, almonds, peanuts, rice crackers, apricots—stuff none of the guys want to work. Too gay, I guess. Thanks to the remodel, dried fruit has been relegated to an aisle far from Produce, next to oatmeal. Consequently, I have to roll my tipsy cart across the store, weave through people and displays, and hope a crate of
Craisins
doesn’t tumble off and knock out a customer.

Planning my strategy for the day, I walk, head down—my sneakers (red Converse All Stars) squeaking, thanks to the rain inside and out—and run into the Produce Manager. Literally. He’s crawling around the floor by the berry display. At first I think he’s looking for a contact lens or something, but then I realize he’s tracking wayward labels.

“Change in plans,” he says without looking up.

“I know, raisins and nuts. I’m about to get the cart.”

“Forget nuts. Corn.”

My shoulders sag.

“How much?”

He grunts, attempting to peel a label off the floor.

“As much as you can do. Olathe is big. Very big. Customers can’t get enough.” He pulls out a box cutter, distends the razor, and points the blade at a trough of corn. “I’ve filled that bin ten times today, set that trash can next to it so people can shuck their own. Gonna be this way through the Grand Opening and Labor Day.”

“Maybe we should plant a cornfield in the middle of the store, so customers can pick their own and enjoy the full corn experience.”

He stops scraping, considers my idea, then says, “Chop, chop.”

The doctor (not Marcus, a
real
doctor) gave me braces to hold my wrists in correct alignment, and they help. My hands have stopped going numb at night, but when I cut corn, the vibration from chopping kinks my neck and makes my fingers tingle. You might imagine I’m unhappy—delegated to standing on cold concrete, wearing wet sneakers, cutting corn all day—but I’m too excited about my dinner date with Marcus tomorrow evening to be bummed. In fact, I feel elated.