Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (21 page)

Do midgets have small penises?

I think not.

Tyrone Lannister in
Game of Thrones
is quite the swordsman. The thought of well-endowed midgets—or to be politically correct, people little in all ways, but one—really gets me going. Falling to the floor, I roll around, humping myself with the toe. Screeching like a hyena, writhing like a nest of cobras, exploding like a volcano; my neighbors must think I’m Discovery Channel’s biggest fan.

Or maybe HBO, since as I come, I scream, “Tyrone!”

Emerging from an orgiastic haze, my focus returns to Marcus.

Overall, I’m delighted with the result of the pedicure I’ve given him. His feet are now in line with the edge of the freezer. Humming along with Sinatra, I bind the bleeding stumps with tape.

His eyes fly open. He stares at me with disbelief, tries to scream, but duck tape mutes the sound. Wide awake now, despite Xanax and wine, he thrashes around and comes close to falling off the freezer as he attempts to extricate himself.

“Calm down!”

I run into the kitchen, snatch a cast iron pan off the stove, and slam his head.

That shuts him up.

Frank belts, “I Did It My Way,” and I sing along.

The good thing about work is it takes my mind off things I don’t want to think about.

Things like Marcus stinking up my condo.

Thanks to a dolly I borrowed from the supermarket, I moved the freezer to the spare room. On my way there, I dropped Marcus in the bathtub. I think he’s pretty comfortable. I gave him a pillow, several cushions I don’t care about, and an old blanket. Plus I don’t need to worry if he messes himself when there’s easy access to water and a drain. He ruined the carpet in the dining area. I pulled it out and dragged the bloody thing downstairs—no help from him. These days he’s pretty useless. When the super saw the carpet in the dumpster, she scolded me, said it would attract bears. She was right. They tore it to shreds.

Bears are everywhere this summer.

Even in the break room.

The
Gazette
is always strewn across the table, half-buried under donut boxes and the remains of sandwiches. One day the front page screams:
Bear Attack!
I take in the headline, but I don’t read the article, because it pisses me off. From gossip I hear around the store, I know the article mentions two senior citizens, residents of Happy Valley, who lost their lives along the bike path—presumed victims of a bear, since their bodies were gored beyond recognition. If not for dental records, they would not have been identified. Officials recommend carrying pepper spray.

Today the
Gazette
totes another headline:
Lost in Wilderness?
I read that article, and it made me madder than the old folks’ story. According to the paper, a tourist, a local actor, and some woman I once met, have been reported missing. They set out on a backpacking trek along the Colorado Trail and never reached their destination. Search parties have discovered nothing, and the three hikers are suspected to be dead. “Probably veered off the trail,” the sheriff says. “Ten miles up dogs lost the scent due to recent snowfall in the high country.” Conclusion: the hikers are presumed dead due to exposure. The bodies may be buried under snow, or they may have been consumed by bears.

That’s bullshit. Bear shit, to be exact.

In Colorado, we have Black Bears—that’s a species, not a color. Black Bears can be brown, reddish, or honey-blonde. They’re not naturally aggressive; they’re mostly vegetarian and rarely attack humans, unless you interfere with their food supply. Sometimes they become habituated to humans, and then they can be dangerous. Not because they want to eat you, but because you’re blocking them from dinner. A dumpster. Your refrigerator. The pot roast in your slow cooker. Generally, bears prefer berries to humans.

If authorities want to know what happened to those people in the newspaper, they should speak to me. I pull out my cell, and I’m on the verge of dialing 911 and confessing, when I think of Marcus.

He needs me.

And I need him.

We’ve taken our relationship to a new level, beyond sex, practicing nonviolent communication and making sure both of our needs are met. If I report myself to the police, that will be the end of me and Marcus
.
All our hard work will be for naught. I decide to take the high road; I will not allow my ego, an infantile desire for notoriety, to screw up our relationship. Commending myself on the strides I’ve made recently, when it comes to personal growth, I slip the phone back into my pocket.

I’ve been reading
The Power of Now,
and it’s helped me become more selfless. That’s self
less
, not
ish
. There’s a world of difference.

For example, instead of thinking only of myself,
my
needs,
my
appetites, I’ve been thinking about Marcus. I’ve become more generous—spending my spare time with him, cooking special meals, feeding him large doses of Xanax (I had him write me a prescription for maximum strength), so he doesn’t feel much pain. Now and then, I allow the drugs to wear off. When he’s lucid, we have great conversations about important topics: life, death, psychology. I asked him to explain the difference between a sociopath and psychopath. He said, no matter how you slice it,
that’s
what I am.

I can’t blame him for being grouchy. He has health problems. He’s lost a lot of blood, and he may have an infection, but his brain is in great shape. I adore his brain, love the way he thinks, and I wonder if it might be possible to keep his head alive without his body. Stephen Hawking claims a brain’s programming could live forever if it’s stored on a computer. Great minds think alike, I guess. I just need to figure out how to upload Marcus’s brain onto my iPhone, so I can carry him in my pocket. Better yet, I’d like to load the contents of his brain directly into mine. I may need a few more megabytes.

This work is all-consuming.

Yesterday I visited the science museum where a kid—six years old, or maybe seven—gave a lecture on robotics. After the lecture, I approached the kid and asked him a few questions. I mentioned the challenge I’m facing regarding programming and uploading information. The kid offered to help me design a robot (he’s built several) but he needs to do more research on his dog before attempting to transfer human brain data.

I can’t wait to walk around with Marcus’s mind inside my brain. How cool will that be? Marcus is more analytical than I am, and his brain will be useful when it comes to planning events, but after speaking to the science kid I doubt the transfer will happen by Labor Day.

Sometimes I think I should feel guilty.

Isn’t there a law protecting intellectual property?

Then I tell myself thoughts belong to everyone. Any thought that anyone has ever had is available through the collective unconscious. According to Eckhart Tolle, we’re all One. He says, underneath the illusion of separate physical forms, we’re all connected—an intricate network of subsystems specializing in specific functions, ultimately controlled and unified by an infinite motherboard. Ideas float around, and if we snatch one, finders keepers.

The problem is keeping Marcus alive until technology catches up with me. Quadriplegics survive, even with no arms or legs. As long as I keep Marcus’s head connected to his torso, I think he’ll be fine, but once that tie has been severed, I need to find a way to pump blood to his brain.

The intercom breaks into my thoughts.

“Customer Service wanted at the Salad Bar.”

Customer Service
means me.

No doubt we’ve run out of lettuce or salad bowls. I hurry from the break room, preparing to placate an angry customer, beeline past the check stands and head to Produce.

One week till Labor Day and the Grand Opening. Produce looks upscale enough to rival Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s. They reorganized the vegetable and fruit bins, replaced the scuffed linoleum tile floor with simulated wood, revamped the Salad Bar, and the wet rack is spectacular. Little kids adore the thunderstorm effect.

Cautiously, I approach the Salad Bar. Instead of finding an irate customer, I spot Krista peering through the sneeze guard at a bin of spinach. I head toward the onion display and hope she hasn’t noticed me.

“Sadie!”

“Oh-uh, Krista. Hi. How’re you?”

“Why haven’t you answered my texts?”

“I-uh, I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You know, working, projects—”

“Sculpting?”

“You could say that.”

I think of Marcus, or what’s left of him, lying in my bathtub. The rest of him—toes tucked away in Tupperware, calves wrapped in butcher paper, right thigh encased with heavy-duty aluminum foil to avoid freezer burn—is safely stored inside my
Kenmore Elite
. Arms, hands, most of the left thigh, are still intact. As is his penis—although, these days, that organ has proved sadly disappointing. I plan to harvest the remainder of his left thigh, so I can make a Christmas roast encrusted with rosemary and garlic … served with a tangy orange sauce or tart cherries or traditional horseradish and sour cream. Which do you think would be yummier? Like all good cooks, I prefer fresh meat to frozen. But I doubt Marcus will make it to the holidays.

I hate spending Christmas alone, and no way am I visiting my father. Not after last year’s fiasco. But first I need to survive this summer, not to mention Krista’s current interrogation.

“You never showed for anatomy class.”

“Yeah, I know.” I shift from foot to foot, mapping out my best escape route.

“How can you sculpt if you don’t understand anatomy?”

“I’m working on it.”

Cocking her head, she studies me.

“You look different, Sadie.”

“Do I?”

“You ever go for counseling?”

“I’m seeing a psychiatrist.”

Big mistake
. Krista knows everyone.

“Who are you seeing?”

“Marcus,” his name blasts out of my mouth, before I stop myself.

“Archuleta?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard he left town unexpectedly.”

“Really?”

“His receptionist and I take the same yoga class—Kundalini, Monday evenings, you should try it—she told me Dr. Archuleta stopped showing at the office. No explanation. Just a voice mail.”

I don’t mention this to Krista, but, actually, I made that call. A damned good impersonation, IMO.

“She said Marcus sounded weird, not like himself at all. When did you last see him, Sadie?”

“A while ago.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m great.”

Krista’s eyes meet mine, and I see her concern.

My left eye twitches.

“If you want help, Sadie, I know people—”

“Help with what?”

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or whatever ...”

Whatever
hangs between us like a big, fat question mark.

My left eye is going bonkers, twitching and tearing. I’m sure Krista notices.

I focus on the Salad Bar, say, “I’d better get more lettuce.”

Before Krista can stop me, I charge through Deli, hit Bakery, and head for the freight elevator. Safe inside the employee-only zone, I pause to catch my breath. My heart slams into my chest, like it’s committing suicide.

I punch the button, summoning the elevator.

Punch it three more times.

There’s perspiration on my forehead, but I’m not warm, I’m shivering.

I need a Xanax, fast.

Finding the vial in the pocket of my apron (I keep it with me at all times), I force myself to swallow a pill without the benefit of water. It lodges in my throat, and I try to cough it up.

The elevator door slides open, and I’m still coughing.

“You okay, Sadie?”

Trying not to choke, I nod at the Store Manager. Since my interview with him, at least he knows my name, or maybe he just read my nametag.

“Sure you’re okay?”

He eyeballs my heaving chest.

I make a guttural, piggy sound, attempting to dislodge the pill.

“Have a great day, Sadie.”

A loud hiccup escapes my mouth.

Maintaining a wide berth, the Store Manager steps out of the elevator as I enter.

My next hiccup is a screech.

Mercifully, the door closes.

On the ride down, my throat continues to convulse, making noises like the neighbor’s cat trying to dislodge a hairball. (Of course it doesn’t do that now.) When the elevator reaches the basement, I exit in a hurry, in case the security guy caught my coughing fit on camera; I’ve heard he plays back funny clips for all his friends. Still hiccupping, I walk past the compactor, in search of the dried fruit and nut cart, and hit a construction zone. Planks of wood and strips of aluminum are stacked along the hallway. A large box containing a display case stands beside metal double doors that are usually locked. Today someone left the doors ajar.

“Hello?”

My voice echoes through the cavernous room. So do my hiccups.

The double doors lead to an area beneath the store’s showroom, the supermarket’s inner sanctum. My sneakers are silent as I tread across the concrete floor. A hum pervades the space, generated by some unknown source of power. Lured by the hypnotic sound, I move deeper into the adytum. The hum becomes louder, pulses through me.

My forehead smacks something cold and hard. A maze of PVC, steel, cast iron, and copper pipes crisscross the ceiling. Some hang so low I have to duck under them—tubing to feed refrigeration, gas lines for ovens, pressurized water for kitchens and bathrooms. On the far wall a mishmash of colored wires creeps over the concrete, supplying electricity to fluorescent overheads and display lights, cash registers, intercom, air-conditioning, and (for all I know) an electric chair for wayward employees.

Standing in the heart of the building, I listen to the thrum.

An electric pulse, feeding juice to the store’s internal organs.

Symbolic, don’t you think?

Cardboard boxes—some empty, some filled with equipment—are strewn across the floor. My gaze travels to a carton marked:
PUMPS.
The flaps of the box are torn, allowing me to peer inside. Pumps for the sprinkler system.