The Demon (33 page)

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defined anxieties started to haunt him, he simply went out and had a free lunch. Just like that. So simple he found it almost impossible to believe. But there it was. And there he was. One free meal and he felt fine. He was amazed that he was able to do such a thing. But he was. There it was. He was doing it. From time to time he thought about being asked why he had not paid his check and he would pursue the thought just long enough to experience the thrill of apprehension, then dismiss it from his mind before it prevented him from walking out with a wave of the hand, You take care of it Henry, I/ll meet you outside. And, anyway, he could always say it was an oversight, that he was preoccupied and did not realize what he had done and simply pay the check with the proper reassurances. Actually, who was going to believe that a man in his position would try to leave without paying the check?

 
Linda became aware of her voice as she once more went through the house singing, and as she walked around the garden talking to Harry Junior, telling him the names of the different plants and flowers. She was startled by the sound of her voice initially, and then by the realization that it had been some time (my God, how long?) since she had stopped singing.

 
She could also hear, and feel, her enthusiasm being rekindled; and was startled, too, by the evidence of neglect obvious in her gardens. She happily and energetically trimmed, pruned, spaded and weeded as she answered Harry Juniors endless stream of questions.

 
And with the passage of time, and the passing of fear and anxiety, there came an awareness of just how frightened and anxious she had been. It was only with the release from her fears and anxiety that she became aware of the extent to which they had been haunting her for what seemed to be an eternity. Her only point of reference to time was the chorus that lilted through her head, telling her things were just like they were a year ago.

A year ago? Could it really be that long since the feeling

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of despair became stronger and stronger and her husband whom she adored and loved, became more and more of a stranger? Could it really be that long? How did she survive? How did they survive? Of course there had been times when things were fine—moments and days here and there—but in looking back the pain seemed so bad she could not imagine surviving it for a week, much less a year. Well, whatever the truth might be, it was unimportant now. However long was immaterial. Things were back to normal. They talked and joked and laughed and Harry put his arms around her and kissed her and hugged her and whispered in her ear and they made love ...

and then held

hands and thrilled to the softness of night. And Harry did not suddenly bolt up in the middle of the night looking as if he had come face to face with death. There was joy and love and happiness in their home once more. Yes, things were back to normal, thank God. And, she was pregnant.

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17

                     
Harry was happily surprised to find out that they were going to have another baby. It would be nice for Harry Junior to have a little sister. And, he agreed, that they really did not want to wait any longer to have a second child. As it was, Harry Junior will be five when the baby was born. I think thats a large enough difference in ages. Harry started looking forward to seeing the glow in Lindas face and eyes that came with pregnancy, and feeling the baby kick and protest at being confined in that small dark place. It would not be long before the baby would fight and wiggle its way to freedom and the light. Just a matter of time.

              
And it is just a matter of time until history once more becomes a living reality. The reality came for Harry one day when he walked out of a restaurant without paying the check, and did not realize that he had done so. There were no wave and faked instructions to bring the action

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to his consciousness. He had walked a block or so before he became aware of what he had done. Actually the first thing he was aware of was the fact that the accustomed feeling was not there. There was no feeling at all. Not even a vague memory of apprehension or anxiety before leaving, or the slightest hint of excitement now. He just felt flat. Deserted.

 
He closed his office door and thought about it for a moment, but soon had to stop as his body started to shrivel with dread. He could only think that somehow this meant he would go back into the living nightmare, and he would rather kill himself than do that. He couldnt. Not now. He dismissed the matter from his mind and buried himself in his work.

But the

thought and fear nagged at him on the way home, fighting for recognition, but he shoved them down out of sight and sound. The next morning he told Linda that he was going to work late, and when he saw the expression that suddenly clouded her face, he quickly added that he would not be too late, that he would wait to eat and have a late dinner with her.

 
A couple of hours after everyone went home that night he roamed through the office. In all the vast expanse of offices and space, he was the only one there. It was a strange and almost eerie feeling.

 
He browsed through offices and desks and was amazed to find money, jewelry, watches and a hundred and one little odds and ends.

 
He walked to the floor above and went through a few of the offices there. Again he seemed to be alone. It was quiet. Tomblike silence. He could hear himself breathing—then he heard the sound of an elevator and he froze and waited until it had obviously passed the floor he was on. His legs and knees felt almost rubbery. His gut churned and twisted. That thrill and excitement were there again. All of his senses were not only alive, but magnified.

 
He roamed through the office, opening and closing desk drawers, at first very carefully and quietly, and then in a more natural and open manner. He collected a total of seventeen

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dollars and thirty-seven cents, almost half of it in change. Small change. He walked down the stairs, slowly, to his office, then took the elevator down to the ground floor. Conscious of the weight of all the change in his pocket, he could feel his heart pound and ring in his ears as he said good night to the security guard. He had thought of putting the change in a bag and dumping it down a sewer immediately, but decided instead to carry it all the way home. Just feeling the coins in his pocket kept the excitement alive. The feeling of elation was intense. The following day he stopped in a bank and got a supply of coin wrappers.

 
Dr. Martin was delighted with the tremendous improvement in Harrys condition. It was obvious to him that he had penetrated Harrys barrier and that the process of sublimation had been successfully accomplished and that they could now delve deeper into Harrys childhood and his Oedipal involvement without any trauma. Yes, Dr. Martin was extremely pleased indeed and smiled and glowed inwardly and puffed on his pipe as he listened to Harry.

 
Although Harry was coming home late occasionally, Linda was not upset now. Actually it was no different than when they were first married, almost six years ago, except, of course, the trip home was longer. Everything else was the same. Harry was cheerful, and they had their evenings and weekends together, and she was able to give all of herself to him and wait for him with open arms.

 
And there was life in her belly. A life that she could feel and see. And Harry would put his ear to her growing belly and tell her she was right, it sure sounds like a girl to me honey. And as her belly, and the life within her, grew, so did her glow of peace.

 
Through exploring his own office building Harry found many ways to obtain access to other buildings, even those with

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security guards. It was simple to determine the approximate time that they made their rounds, if ever, and adjust the time of his explorations accordingly. On one occasion he stayed in a mens room for more than an hour, waiting until he was certain the office was empty. As he sat in the small cubicle, time felt heavy and endless. Then he became aware of the increasing feeling of excitement in his legs and loins, and the rumblings of the fear of being caught in his gut. He allowed himself to become consciously involved with the feelings, and the sensations, caused by the sweat sliding down his back, and he lost his sense of time and caressed himself with the feelings that throbbed through him.

 
He walked through offices, opening and closing drawers, making just a little more noise each time. At first he just took some of the money he found lying around because it was completely unidentifiable. No one could stop him on the street and arrest him as a thief for the few extra dollars in his pocket, even if he did have an inordinately large amount of change. But eventually the excitement started to wane and he started walking around the offices as if he owned them, making as much noise as he wanted. Then he started taking little objects such as rings and watches and kept them in his pocket until he was almost home; then he threw them away.

  
As the months crowded into each other it became more difficult to replace the tension in his body with excitement. He started taking larger objects from the offices, such as adding machines and calculators and various office machines and equipment, making certain he carried them at least two blocks before he left them on the street. One night he took a typewriter from the tenth floor of a building, and before he was halfway down the stairs, he thought he would have to leave it. His arms ached and started to cramp. His hands felt like they were being cut. His heart pounded and his eyes were almost blinded with sweat. He started stumbling and teetered on the edge of a step and could feel his body slowly leaning forward, ready to topple down the stairs and maybe get his head crushed

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by the typewriter, and he fought desperately against the forces of gravity and finally staggered back and banged against the wall and just stayed there, panting. . . .

He

did not want to leave the typewriter there. He thought that maybe he should just put it down for a minute and rest. Yeah, just a minute ... just a— No! No! He would never get it up again. He knew that. Definitely. And he had to get this thing out of the building. He had to. He leaned against the wall, feeling the sweat roll down his face and watching it splat on the typewriter. Every goddamn muscle ached and he felt like he could not last another second, but the excitement was so intense he was actually rolling his hips slowly and rhythmically. . . .

He licked his

lips over and over and pushed himself away from the wall and slowly descended the stairs, leaning against the wall, tentatively putting one foot down, and then the other, reaching for the next step, counting each one carefully so he would not suddenly pound into a landing. Eight steps, a landing, turn, another eight steps to the next floor. Three more floors to go. Impossible. The machine hung from his hands. He rubbed against it. He rested on the landing. His body screamed to put the fucking thing down and go. But he wouldnt. He was going to get it down and out of the building. He would not give in to the pain. He would endure. Another eight steps. Turn. Eight more steps. Two floors to go. His rib cage felt like it would splinter. He wanted to at least rest. Jesus he had to rest. He kept going. He could not stop. He would never start again. He had to keep up the momentum. Eight slow steps. Searching and finding each one with a probing foot. A landing. Slide along the wall. Head pulled forward. Sweat blinding him. Drops floating on the keyboard. Down the steps. Down the steps. Down the steps. Another floor. Just one to go. Sweet Jesus. Still one more. Almost slides to the floor. Inches along the wall. The machine cutting into him. The

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steps are further apart. Cant find them. Down. Down. A landing. Thank krist. Slide, slide. Eight more steps. Find the fucking step. The step. Just a few more. Almost down. One more—THERES ANOTHER ONE!!!! Holy shit! He almost fell. He leaned against the wall, straddling two steps. He peered over the machine. Four more. How the fuck can that be? Should only be eight. Why twelve? Cant make it. Cant do it. Cant turn. Cant get straight. Have to turn. Find the next step. Where is it? Have to get down. Thats right. Twelve in the first staircase. One more. One fucking more. Down. Down. Down, goddamn it. Made it. The door. What the fuck! Cant open it. Cant pull it in. He leans. Tentatively. It moves out, IT MOVES!!!! He peers into the lobby. Staggers through. More doors. Leans them open. The street. The open fucking street. Cold. Move. Staggers along street to corner. Leans against building. Turns and moves. Move further. Move, goddamn your ass. More. You can do it. More. Body screeching. Be a fucking man. Move. Down the street. Yeah, here. Here. Stops. Lowers machine to the ground. Stand. Panting. His body and clothing saturated with sweat. Wipes head, then takes handkerchief from pocket and wipes face. Made it. I/ll be a son of a bitch. I made it. Yeah, hahahahahahaha. Still laughing as he starts walking. Stops for a moment and feels crotch. I/ll be a son of a bitch. That goddamn typewriter got me horny. Better than sniffing bicycle seats. Laughter. Laughter and a slow walk to the station. His body weak and exhausted, but the adrenalin high, blood pulsing through his veins to the strained muscles. A feeling of intense and almost unbearable stimulation and excitement. He remembers Finn Hall, the American Legion, Knights of Columbus and a hundred and one nameless and forgotten dance halls where he danced and talked and laughed and looked into a pair of eyes and put his open hand firmly on an inner thigh, then slowly walked from the dance hall into the street and took a cab to a house, wondering if an unexpected husband would be there or would suddenly come home while he was still there. Jesus krist, he

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