“ARGH!” The pain was intense. Dick sat up in bed, spreading his fingers and then clenching his fists. The joints were sore and swollen. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stared at the wall. Should he get up?
It was winter. There wasn’t much to do in winter. Just wait. Smacking his lips, he stretched and belched. The floor was cold. He hobbled to the bathroom to relieve his bladder. Wincing, he shook the last drops off his penis. It stung. Red welts covered the flesh around his privates. He hated the cleansing ceremonies.
He stared at himself in the mirror, sucking in his belly and flexing his pectorals. The hair on his chest was white. When did that happen? His dentures were soaking in a glass on the sink. He sucked in his cheeks so that he looked like a gasping fish. Little Roddie used to do that. He expelled the air out of his lungs in a long wheeze. It was no good.
Splashing cold water on his face didn’t help either. He staggered into the kitchen and opened a cold beer. He might be losing his physical prowess, but experience counted for something. Didn’t it? He downed the Budweiser and opened another one, holding the frosty bottle against his burning balls.
He hadn’t been out and about during the day in months. At first, he had been afraid he’d run into Grady the Janitor. Then he realized no one cared if two guys had a fight in the bathroom of Concourse B at Pittsburgh International.
The run-in with that wildcat in Hinckley was worse. He’d made a career of knowing which ones to take and which one to pass up. It was unlikely she could identify him, but leaving one alive like that was a mistake.
He spent the winter cowering in his apartment expecting the cops or John Walsh or the Biker Twins to show up at any time. Then when it looked like he was regaining his grip, he lost one of his girls.
That was the worst blow of all. She was his and he lost her. These blunders were amateurish. It was embarrassing. He set the warming beer on the counter and went to the bedroom to dress.
His normal clothes hurt too much. Even his underwear hurt. He slipped on soft gray fleece pants and a thick sweatshirt. Wool socks and expensive walking shoes, the blue down vest, the knit hat―his winter stalking clothes. It was fitting.
He stood on his porch and stretched. The river glittered through the trees. He glanced at the big house. The old buffalo was asleep. She never got up before noon. He wouldn’t be needing her money now.
He hiked across the drive to the stable. He unlocked the Jeep and drove it into the courtyard. Getting out, he threw his weight against the garage door to close it. He always intended to fix it. Maybe get one of those fancy-dancy electronic openers. Oona Barrett had more money than God. She could afford it. He never got around to it. Never would now.
The gravel crunched under his tires as he started down the hill. He accelerated, skidding around the tight curves. No reason to be careful now.
Sewickley was a charming village―quaint on purpose. He nosed the Jeep into a slant-parking space in front of his favorite Chinese restaurant. Might as well get something he enjoyed.
An irritable Asian waiter in a black waistcoat took his order. “Wonton Soup and Cashew Chicken. Green Tea.” He sat near the front window so he could keep an eye out for John Walsh.
He laughed at himself. John Walsh would never find him now. He got up and moved to another table in the corner. The waiter scowled at him. “Give me Diet Coke instead of Green Tea.” Why worry about his health now?
The waiter scratched out something on his pad and wrote in something else. “Diet Coke.”
“No. Change that. Make it regular Coke.”
“The man rolled his eyes.
“I don’t care. I want what I want.”
“Fine. Coke.” The waiter turned to leave.
“One more thing!” Dick held up the chopsticks encased in paper.
The waiter raised one eyebrow.
“Bring me a fork.”
The little man in the waistcoat sighed.
*
Oakland teamed with young women. It was one of his favorite places. Parking the Jeep in the parking lot adjacent to the Carnegie Museum and Library, he crossed the street. Which was better? The dinosaurs or books? He went around to the Forbes Avenue Entrance.
The diplodocus stretched from the front of the room to the back, a monstrous skeleton. They’d built a little glass wall around the tail. He used to be able to reach down and stroke those giant bones. He loved the gritty, waxy feel of them, but they wouldn’t let you to touch them anymore.
He looked around for the guards. They were busy with a lost little boy. He took off his gloves and laid them on top of a nearby glass case. Bending down, he stroked one of the tail joints. The guard glanced his way. Dick stood up and put his hands in the pockets of his vest. Avoiding the man’s eyes, he wandered into the next room.
He squatted in front of a tiny horse no bigger than a poodle. It sat a few feet away from the great saber toothed tiger. It was obvious that the tiger was meant to eat that pretty little horse. Comforted, he took one last look at the wooly mammoth exhibit and he was ready for the library.
There was a door between the museum and the library but they wouldn’t let him use it. He had to walk all the way around the building. Damned inexplicable rules.
Nodding to the guards at the desk, he climbed the stoop to the first level. His footsteps echoed in the marble hallway. He avoided the main room where they kept the computers. He felt their electronic eyes on him all the way to the first landing. On the second floor, he found his favorite book toward the back of a bank of bookshelves. The reading table was in the corner.
He thumbed through until he found the pictures. They always excited him. It was a romantic option he kept in mind since he first read that many killers ultimately kill themselves.
His favorite photograph showed a man who committed suicide by cutting himself in two with a band saw. He turned the book sideways. How did one manage such a feat? The victim’s lower body perched on a platform behind the blade, the upper part of the severed torso lay on the floor.
The logistics of such an act were mind-boggling. There was the question of pain. How long did one have to lie there while the saw worked its way through your flesh? The destruction of a body gave him pleasure, but he couldn’t imagine doing that kind of damage to his OWN body.
Who would be around to appreciate his work? Of course, Oona Barrett would call in the cops and they might take pictures, which would end up in books like this one. He rubbed his penis through his fleece sweatpants and flinched. He was still sore and still soft. This was not the method for him.
Then there were people who strangled themselves. Two of these pictures were of guys dressed in women’s clothes. Hanging from their necks with their toes centimeters from being able to touch the floor, their penises dangled obscenely out of their lace panties.
Fascinated, he ran his finger over the photos. It was an interesting option, but he wasn’t a transvestite. That was too bad. It wouldn’t be as much fun in his own clothes. What would he wear? His Fruit of the Looms? Crew socks? An Izod shirt? He imagined the old woman breaking into the apartment when the stench got too bad. No, auto asphyxia was too embarrassing.
There was a photo of a young girl who laid her neck across a railroad track before an approaching train. The results stirred him.
He once had an apartment in The Pennsylvanian, which also housed the train station. At the end of Grant Street in downtown Pittsburgh, it was a beautiful building. He thought of the horror-stricken passengers running along the platforms―police and paramedic sirens screaming as they rushed to the scene, the shrieks of the children when they saw his severed head. It had possibilities. If it hurt, it didn’t hurt long.
However, it had the same drawbacks as the band saw approach. You had to contort yourself like Gumby and hope you got it right the first time.
Shooting yourself seemed to be a popular approach, but he wanted something with a bit more creativity. Any Tom, Dick and Harry could shoot themselves. However, he did enjoy the story of a fellow who shot himself in the head twice with a shotgun. Now THAT was a screw-up.
There was suicide by cop. Going out in a blaze of glory would make for a great news day on CNN. He imagined himself―defiant to the end, shaking his fist and spitting curses out of the window of a burning building. John Walsh would show the clips over and over.
Of course, part of the allure of suicide is being able to control your own death. What if the cops chose NOT to gun him down like a dog? More and more they were using non-lethal ways of capturing their prey. What if they squirted that foamy crap all over him? How humiliating was that? He imagined the Biker Twins from Hell sitting in their den, watching TV, eating popcorn and laughing as he writhed inside that gelatinous goo.
Jumping seemed the most romantic option. He imagined himself executing a perfect swan dive, splatting on the pavement below in front of an enormous crowd of horrified women.
Pittsburgh had some attractive high spots too. The Cathedral of Learning was in walking distance of the Library. He wouldn’t even have to move the Jeep to a new parking lot. The USX Building rose out of the downtown area but off the top of his head, he couldn’t remember if there was an outdoor deck.
Most local jumpers seemed to prefer one of the high yellow bridges strung over either the Allegheny or the Monongahela Rivers. Dick closed his eyes and imagined the Golden Triangle. He had it! It was perfect. He slipped the book up under his sweatshirt and crept out of the library.
#
As usual, there were orange barrels directing him from one detour to another. Thirty minutes later, he found himself on West Carson Street headed west. Just beyond Station Square, a small turn-off led him down by the Allegheny to a dirt parking lot. He locked the Jeep―leaving a clear handprint on the shiny hood, the suicide book on the front seat and his scrapbook of panties and photos in the back. After all, what he was about to do required an informed audience.
It was cold that close to the river. He pulled his knit hat lower over his ears and lifted the collar of his vest. He patted his pockets. Damn! He left his gloves at the museum. They were his good leather ones too! Irritated, he stuffed his hands in the slash pockets of his vest.
A wooden staircase led to a bridge over Carson Street and then to the Duquesne Incline Station. The building reflected another era when people rode down Mount Washington to work in the Steel Mills. He bought a one-way ticket and stared through the window of an antique door as the train eased into the dock.
A bell rang and the doors to the passenger compartment slid open. A sour-faced woman and two little boys got out. The kids bounded into the station like overactive puppies. The woman yelled at them to settle down and they ignored her.
Dick pushed open the door and entered the inclined train. The lone passenger, he sat on the bench seat at the end of the car so he could watch the city recede below him. The bell rang and the doors slammed. As he rose above the station, the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers merged to form the Ohio right in front of him.
Three Rivers Stadium sat across the Allegheny from the Triangle. They were supposed to tear it down soon. The city wouldn’t be the same without it. The fountain on the tip of Point State Park lay dormant for the winter. He missed it. He loved the way the water spurted hundreds of feet in the air before falling back into the pool. Nothing was like it used to be. Nothing but the Incline itself.
Pittsburgh glittered in the sunshine. This was definitely the way to go. KDKA would be on site in minutes, beating even the police. Should he jump as soon as he got to the observation deck? No, he’d wait until the News choppers arrived. He wanted the video cameras focused right on him when he jumped.
The car going up passed the car going down near the mid-point of the ride. A tiny boy waved at him from the other train. Dick gasped and stood up, pressing his face against the glass. Little Roddie disappeared down the mountain. Dick sat back down, this time facing forward.
At the top station, Dick stepped into a museum of sorts. A tiny woman with bright orange hair molded around her face like a bubble sat in the ticket booth.
“Good afternoon, young man.” Her voice was as shrill as a cricket’s chirp. “Not too many people out in this cold.”
He nodded.
“You from Pittsburgh? The view is tremendous, isn’t it? This Incline has been here a long, long time. I’ve got souvenirs--photos, drawings and paintings. You interested?” Her lipstick bled into the tiny lines around her mouth. She smiled and batted her fake eyelashes.
“No, thank you. I didn’t come for that.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve got some nice stuff.”
“Maybe another time.” Of course, he knew there wouldn’t be another time. It was almost over.
A short hallway lined with old photographs of the city led him to the observation deck. Cold wind whistled around his ears. He was alone. It occurred to him that the plump little lady selling tickets and souvenirs was the last person to speak to him. She’d remember it later when that pretty blonde woman from KDKA interviewed her.
At the far corner, he crawled up onto the railing, balancing with his arms outstretched. So this was it, he thought. He raised his face to the heavens. An invisible jet raced across the sky-blue sky trailing a white mist. All he needed to do was lean forward.
That’s when he made his mistake. He looked down. The mountain angled below him, covered with rocks and trees. His muscles tightened and his left foot slipped. He felt himself falling. Do it, he thought. Just let go and let it happen.
No! Without thinking, he grabbed the railing as he fell. The bare metal was freezing but he couldn’t force his fingers open. It was agony, but he held on anyway.
“What’s going on here?” The chirping voice came from the door of the station. Light footsteps approached.
“HELP!” Terror strengthened Dick’s grip but he knew he couldn’t hold on long.
“I’m here. Take my hand!” The woman’s face appeared, her small plump hand outstretched.
“I CAN’T LET GO!”
“There’s no one around but me. If you don’t let me help you, you’ll die.” She gripped his left wrist with her right hand. Her glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. She was older than he was. How was she going to save him?
His left toe found a nook in the under carriage of the deck. It gave him enough leverage to pull forward with his right hand. The woman tugged with all her might on his left. He swung his right leg up. The railing was too high and it caused him to fall backwards.
“Help me!”
“I’ve got you. I won’t let go.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You can’t lift shit.”
The woman pursed her lips. “Then you are dead, young man. Do you feel dead?”
Who was this idiot? He swung his right leg again. This time his heel caught on the top rail. She clung to his forearm. As he came over the railing, she fell backwards onto her butt.
He jumped down and helped her to her feet. “You are crazy. You could have been hurt.”
“Crazy?” She puffed. “I’m not the one standing on top of the rail pretending to be God.” She wasn’t wearing a coat and her teeth chattered.
He rotated his arm, wincing. He’d wrenched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in danger.”
“Let’s get inside, young man. I’m freezing.” She turned her back on him and headed for the station. He hung his head and followed her obediently. He hoped she wasn’t going to call the police and get him in trouble. Now that he wasn’t going to die, he didn’t want the attention.
She went into the ticket booth and poured them each a Styrofoam cup full of black coffee. “I don’t have any cream. We drink it black around here.”
“Thanks.” His fingers were numb. He held the cup in both hands, enjoying the heat on his aching hands.
“You going to tell me what that’s all about?”
“You aren’t going to call the cops?”
“Do you want me to? She sat down on a wooden bench and motioned for him to join her. Her breasts were large. Her hips and legs tiny. She wore a colorful satin jacket over a black blouse and black pants.
He thought about how it would feel to put his hands around her neck. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I oughta spank you. You scared the bejesus out of me.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Life that awful for you?”
“No, it hasn’t been awful. Maybe scary sometimes.” He stared at the palm of his left hand. There was a splinter in the flesh below his thumb.
“Here, let me fix that for you. I got something that will burn like hell.”
“Okay.”
She hurried into the office and returned with a piece of gauze, some rubbing alcohol and a needle. “I have to make do. I didn’t expect I’d have to doctor up someone who was damn fool enough to do what you did.”
Yes, ma’am.” He held out his hand like a child, his chin trembling.
“There are people who love you. What would this do to them?”
He tried to think. Did anyone love him?
“Well, there are certainly people that YOU love.” She must have read his mind.
He thought of his girls and nodded.
“There you are. You have things you are supposed to do in life. Did you ever see that movie with Jimmy Stewart?”
“Harvey?”
“No, the one about the angel needing wings.”
“It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“Remember what they said? Each person has an impact on the lives of everyone they know or will know. You have a destiny, young man. You can’t throw that away.” She dug into his hand with the needle. He whimpered. She glanced up into his eyes. “Oh, grow up. That didn’t hurt that much.” She held the splinter between her fingernails.
“It did too hurt.” He opened and closed his fist.
“You big baby.” She dabbed at the tiny wound with the alcohol soaked gauze. “You are going to be fine.”
“Thank you again.”
“My name is Winnie Rose. What’s yours?” She patted him on the shoulder.
“Willie Wanger.”
She rolled her eyes and the corner of her mouth twitched. He thought she was going hassle him for lying to her, but she just sighed. “Nice to meet you, Willie. Now you go on back down the mountain and get on with your life.”
She was right. He should do what he was supposed to do until he couldn’t anymore or until someone stopped him. Either way, it was out of his hands. He was like that saber-toothed tiger. He would keep on hunting until he died. It was the natural order of things.
The office was empty. She stood up and he stood as well. “You saved my life,” he said. He couldn’t tell if there was someone in the small room operating the Incline. They walked towards the main lobby. It was empty too.
“You want a souvenir?” She pointed to a stylized line drawing of the Golden Triangle. “Maybe it would help you remember this day.”
He maneuvered so that he was behind her. “That sounds good. How much would it cost?”
“Oh, I’ll give it to you.” She bent over to retrieve the drawing from a low shelf.
He raised his hands, the fingers spread. One more moment and he’d be in position. His raw penis stiffened, his balls tightened.
The front doors crashed open and a group of teenage boys came inside the foyer, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. “Afternoon, Miz Rose. How ya doing?” One of them called.
Dick jerked his hands down and held them behind his back.
Winnie rolled the drawing and stuck it into a cardboard tube. “I’m okay. What are you characters up to this fine day?”
“Going down to Station Square. My uncle is going to pick us up and drive us over to the University. He used to go there and he’s going to give us a tour.”
“Well, you have a wonderful time.”
“Thanks, we will.” The boys each bought a ticket.
“It’ll just be a minute.” Winnie Rose told them. They trooped around to the entrance and waited. “Get yourself on board too, Willie. This will be between you and me.” She put the tube into a paper bag and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Miz Rose.”
She climbed a couple of stairs and opened the door to the operations room. “You come back and see me sometime.”
“Oh I will. For sure,” he said as he went out to the waiting car filled with kids.
#
Tuesday, February 4
It was three weeks before Dick took the computer down out of the closet. His paranoia never lasted long, but he was glad when it went away. He hadn’t seen Buddy or Grady the Janitor or the Biker Twins from Hell in all that time. John Walsh and Larry King focused on terrorist scumbags for the whole hour. That gave him breathing room.
He was prepared if Linda’s ghost appeared again. In fact, it was when he realized he could block her user name that he started feeling better. He loved computers when they weren’t looking at him.
He was gratified to see his ladies missed him. It took hours to go through the emails on each of his user names. He sipped iced tea and switched to BuddyBoy5. Sorting by date, he scrolled through the spam.
“Bingo!” He said when he saw the message from JenniferB29. He pulled up an email form and tapped out an answer.
“Dear Jennifer,
I’m sorry to be so long getting back to you. A friend of mine died and I have been indisposed. I hope that these past few weeks have been good ones for you.
I understand your loneliness. It seems that I have been alone all of my life. I was never close to my parents. Even so, they died when I was in my twenties and that was a long time ago. I spent my adult years focused on my work. No time for a wife or family. Not anything an ordinary woman could understand. That’s why my wife left me. She said she couldn’t compete. In reality, she couldn’t. My work is all-absorbing. That’s why I need a relationship that is flexible.
I am a man of some wealth, which means I can travel and I’m not limited. I have a beautiful recreational vehicle that I often take on my trips. Perhaps I can come visit you and we can see some of the country together.
Your friend,
Willie”
He paused for a moment, re-reading it. “Come to me, little pussy,” he said as he hit the SEND key.