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Down in the Dirt v047

The Loner

Donald Kern

    Peter Garrisch, who was divorced at age thirty-two after seven months of marriage, had never felt comfortable around people or, for that matter, his wife. He preferred a solitary life, as much as that was possible, and thought nothing peculiar about it. So his short marriage to Gertrude was a thing totally out of character. It was as if she had cast a spell over him.
    They met when Gertrude walked into his one-man Brooklyn print shop for a small job. Her bulk filled the space between the door and the counter. After placing her order, Gertrude struck up a conversation, to which Peter mostly listened and nodded. She took him to lunch, and two days later proposed. Gertrude had overpowered him with her physical size, desire and will.
    She so frightened Peter, who was not only sickly thin, but also three inches shorter than the five-ten, two-hundred pound Gertrude, that he felt compelled to give in to her every demand. She treated him much as a Greek goddess on the prowl might have mesmerized and captivated a mortal Athenian for whom she had developed a momentary yen. Six weeks after they met, they were married.
    Peter couldn’t remember a happy day in the seven months of their marriage. Gertrude ignored and overrode his quest for solitude with her incessant needs, foremost of which was sex. When she didn’t get it, she nagged him about his lack of virility and made fun of his puny size. Peter, of course, would agree and acquiesce simply to end the matter. This often infuriated his Germanic giant into beating him on the side of the head (which Peter would have preferred to sex, had sex not followed in any case). Gertrude succeeded in forcing herself on him whenever her urge dictated, which to Peter seemed constant.
    Peter’s sexual preference had been, like most of his desires, solitary; a mental state of fantasy in which young women he had seen or met, but had seldom spoken to, succumbed to his winsome ways. To Peter, this fantastical universe in which he played the varied roles of dynamic hero, tender understanding knight, defender of the weak, in a sequence that resembled the shuffle mode of a DVD player, far exceeded anything mere reality could ever approach.
    The happiest day of Peter’s life was the day Gertrude left him. On her way out the door, she said: “You’re less interesting than an onion skin!” Slam! Of that day he remembered only an indescribable ecstasy.
    Since then, Peter had been living in a modest railroad apartment on the west side of Manhattan. He enjoyed his quiet, anonymous life: riding to work on the subway in the warmth of a myriad of silent souls; walking the streets of Manhattan uninhibited by the potential of recognition; sitting in a darkened movie house surrounded by the silence of an absorbed patronage; or sitting in solitude in his apartment watching television, daydreaming, or cleaning his rooms. (He was a neatness freak.) All this anonymity amid a vortex of urban humanity rendered him tireless satisfaction.
    One Saturday afternoon about four months after Gertrude’s departure, Peter, watching street scenes from a front window of his second story apartment, spotted a moving van in front of the building. Two burly men carried a heavy chair through the open door of the apartment house. He heard them struggle upstairs and stop on his floor. The door of the apartment across the hall opened, and a young woman’s voice gave directions on where to put the chair.
    Peter stayed by the window to watch the men at work. He heard them pound down the stairway and reappear on the sidewalk. With them was a woman about his age dressed casually in denim slacks, a T-shirt, and running shoes. Her glossy-black hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. She appeared short but well proportioned with wide hips, narrow shoulders, and firm breasts. Her face was finely structured and she wore large-framed glasses, lending her a bookish and somewhat helpless appearance. She was the antithesis of his large-boned, wide-faced, health-filled, ex-wife, Gertrude.
    Each of the four floors of the apartment house had two identical apartments on opposite sides of a long hallway. The one opposite Peter’s had been vacant for two months. An elderly, scruffy looking, white-haired woman, who never seemed out of a house coat, had lived there. Whenever she heard someone on the stairs, she would open her door a crack and yell obscenities at the top of her lungs, then slam her door shut. To Peter’s relief, relatives took her away.
    Although Peter fantasized about women, he shied away from meeting them, except for Gertrude, which was a freak accident on the order of an asteroid smashing into Earth. Since that first day, he thought salaciously about the young woman next door, whose name on the tab of her mail box read Ginny Flack.
    Peter’s sexual fantasies were like x-rated movies. They offered ecstasy free from involvement. He vowed that the knottiness of a real affair would never be his again. Having someone like Ginny so near, where he could track her activities yet not reveal himself, was the thing that sensually thrilled him.
    Peter seldom heard Ginny enter or leave her apartment during the week, because he left early in the morning for his shop and usually returned late in the evening. But on weekends, he kept an ear open for any sound coming from her side of the hall. He spent time by his front windows looking out into the street on the chance of glimpsing her coming or going. He was careful, though, not to encounter her in the hallway. When occasionally he did, he glided silently by. Exposing himself in that way conflicted with his Walter-Mitty-like world of fantasy. Yet knowing her was his heart’s desire.
    Peter discovered that Ginny went shopping for food in the late morning on Saturdays. Sometimes he tiptoed down the stairs and tailed after her to the supermarket to stealthily watch her wheel her shopping cart through the aisles. He liked the way she picked up a melon or some other piece of fruit or vegetable and caressed it in her hands. It was as if she were feeling and caressing some part of him. Sometimes this experience was so intense that spit dribbled from his lips.
    At other times, Peter watched from the window as her friends entered and left the apartment house. One young man in particular came regularly on Saturday evenings to take her out. Peter didn’t like the way he wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they left the building and walked up the street. Their hips touched and, at times, she glanced up at him as if totally possessed. Peter would stare up the street long after the couple disappeared from sight. Then he would sigh and turn on the television, go to movie, or lie down on his bed to fantasize.
    One Sunday afternoon Peter walked to the Central Park Zoo. He liked watching the polar bears. Those magnificent beasts, so independent, self-reliant, and fearless; so capable of total domination. They symbolized everything Peter felt he should be.
    When he returned to his apartment house, he heard a noise at the top of the stairs and saw Ginny standing there. She seemed to be waiting for him. Peter’s first reaction was to turn around and retrace his steps. His body actually jerked in response to this urge, as if juiced with electricity. But he was too late. Avoiding her was impossible without appearing ridiculous. With his heart pumping wildly, he continued up to the landing. He hoped she wouldn’t notice the small bald spot at the back of his head. He blushed at the idea and patted the spot, as if willing its disappearance.
    “Hello. I’m your next-door neighbor,” Ginny said in a rush. She seemed as agitated as he was. “I need to speak with you. Please?”
    By this time, Peter had reached the landing. She gazed up at him. He instinctively averted his eyes and started to brush past her. “Me? Can’t stop right now,” he mumbled, head down. He was confused by how she appeared to know him. He moved on, but she stayed by his side.
    “Please,” Ginny repeated. “I know we haven’t met, but I need your help real bad. Like totally. Oh, please help me.”
    He stopped and glanced at his door, then back at her, continuing to avoid her eyes. “I’m quite busy,” he said, his eyes darting toward his door at the end of the hall.
    “My name is Ginny Flack,” she continued, “and I know what yours is, Peter, from the mailbox. Could you come into my apartment for just a minute and let me explain?” Stress pinched her face. Peter stood frozen to the spot.
    Ginny grasped Peter’s wrist and guided him to her door. He followed, as if captive to a desire beyond his grasp. She released him to unlock the door and enter. Peter remained outside, but reacting to a petulant wave of her arm, took a step inside the door, which swung shut behind him.
    “Come in,” she said, rushing through the kitchen and two small, narrow rooms into the living room. “Sit, Sit,” she said. “I have something to ask you. Oh, I’m so glad you came.”
    “What is it?” Peter asked. He realized he was sitting on the edge of the chair he had seen carried into the apartment the day Ginny moved in.
    “You see, I’m frightened,” Ginny said. “My boyfriend, I mean my ex-boyfriend, scares me. He called me on the phone not an hour ago and threatened to come over here. I’m afraid of what he might do to me, if he found me alone.”
    “But what could I possibly do?” Peter said, glancing through the room toward the way they’d entered. “You don’t have to let him in.”
    “But you see, that’s just it. He has a key.”
    “Oh. Well...maybe you could call 911 if he threatens you. Yes. That’s what you could do.” Peter stood, forced a camera-click of a smile, and started to leave.
    “No. Please listen.” Ginny took hold of his arm and held him back.
    Peter glanced at her, then away and mumbled: “I must go.”
    “No! He’ll hurt me! Do you want that to happen? He won’t harm me if someone’s here. I know that.”
    Peter saw that it was her desperation making her believe she’d be safe with him, yet her words flattered him. The truth is, he’d never saved anybody from anything.
    Ginny’s pleading voice held him back. He wanted to leave but couldn’t. He simply remained where he was, staring down at his shoes.
    The woman Peter had fantasized about these past months was pleading with him to help her. That thought was enough to turn his panic into a grudging willingness to stay the course. “All right,” he said softly, as if afraid of his own words.
    Peter went back to his chair and sat down at its edge, back straight, weight forward on his legs, hands on his knees, as if ready to sprint. “Who is it that’s coming?” he asked, attempting to hold his voice steady.
    “His name is Mike Prince,” Ginny said. “He’s very jealous. He found out that I was seeing someone else. He said he’d kill me if I went out with anyone else. I told him it was none of his business who I saw. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I said that.”
    “Did he hurt you?” Peter asked.
    “I think he would have. But at the time we were with another couple, and they told him to knock it off. And he did. He was okay the rest of the night. But I decided I wouldn’t see him again. And when he called for a date, I told him that. You wouldn’t believe the rage he was in.” Ginny looked at Peter. “See?”
    Peter couldn’t respond immediately. He brushed his sweaty palms against the sides of his corduroys and licked his dry lips. Finally he said, “When did he call for a date?”
    “Oh, awhile ago. Early this afternoon. He lives all the way over on the East Side and further uptown. So even if he came over immediately after the phone call it would take him almost an hour to get here.
    “By taxi?”
    “He never takes a taxi. That’s another thing about him. He’s a cheapskate about certain things, like paying for a taxi ride. Anyway, I knocked on your door, but you weren’t in. Then I stood by the window for the longest time and finally saw you coming down the street. That’s when I went out to the landing to wait for you. You can’t imagine what a relief it was to know that a man was around.”
    Nobody had ever lauded Peter’s manliness before. He’d always been the runt to be picked on. Even Teutonic Gertrude treated him like that. Her words bolstered his self-image. His picture of her in his fantasies and seeing her in the flesh began slowly to merge. He remembered how she held his arm, feeling the warmth of her hand on his skin.
    “I don’t mind staying,” Peter said. “I want to.”
    “You’re wonderful. I feel so safe now. Like nothing can happen to me.” Ginny rose from the couch and stood in front of Peter. “Thanks,” she said. He looked into her face and saw tenderness, a rarity in his life. He’d do anything for her. Anything!
    Just then her buzzer rang. Peter and Ginny looked wide-eyed at each other. “It’s probably him,” she said with a challenging look.
    Peter nodded with a determination usually reserved for avoiding people. Ginny went out to the kitchen to press the button that would unlock the front door to the apartment house. A moment later, there was a knock on her door.
    Peter remained in his chair. He bent forward to hear. He heard the door open and voices talking, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.
    There was another door to the hallway in the living room. Peter glanced at it, thinking he might use that to disappear into his own apartment. But before he could act, he heard footsteps approaching. Ginny and a tall, dark-haired, muscular man stood at the entrance to the living room. He was the same one Peter had seen visiting on Saturday nights. He wore the look of coarseness.
    Peter remained frozen in amazement as he watched them ostentatiously embrace and kiss, as if he weren’t there. The man moved away from Ginny and sneered at Peter. “This him?” he said, pointing at Peter with his chin.
    “That’s him all right,” Ginny said, disgust sharpening her words.
    Peter shrunk into the back of his large chair. He kept his eyes on the massive forearms and biceps of the man.
    “You don’t know what this is all about, do you, you little freak,” the man said. “Oh, I know everything. Don’t look so innocent. Ginny told me. We’ve got a good mind to turn you over to the police.”
    The man took a step toward Peter, causing him to press back into the stuffing of the chair. His ersatz gallantry disappeared. Rattled confusion and fear took its place.
    “Wha...what’s this all about, Ginny. I was going to help you, remember?
    You...you asked me here.” He barely managed to utter the words.
    Ginny and the man smirked.
    “Peter, meet Mike Prince, my boyfriend.”
    Mike grinned as Peter’s uncomprehending eyes darted from him to Ginny and back.
    “The little jerk doesn’t know what’s going on,” Mike said.
    “You’d better tell him before he faints,” Ginny said. They laughed, hardly bothering to look at Peter.
    “Well, let’s get to the point, little man,” Mike said, pointing a thick finger at Peter. “You’ve been following Ginny around. She’s seen you floating behind her like a little fairy. She used to see you peeking at her in the supermarket. Who knows what a queer jerk like you is up to?”
    Peter stared openmouthed at Ginny. “You...you tricked me,” he said.
    “Yes. You disgust me. They shouldn’t let your kind out in the street.” Anger filled Ginny’s voice.
    Peter’s head jerked back, as if Ginny had smacked him in the face.
    “Okay, farmer, there’s the door,” Mike said. “If you bother this lady again, we’ll report you to the police, but not before I beat the shit out of you.”
    Peter stood, and without looking at either of them, walked to the living room door, opened it and slid through. In the hallway, after the door closed, he gasped. He felt so weak he had to lean against the wall and remain absolutely still. His heart pounded so hard he thought he might die. After a several minutes, he gained enough strength to walk the few steps to his own door and enter his apartment.
    Peter sat down on his living-room couch. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. He mumbled to himself, “They made fun of you, didn’t they. Just like they all do. They treated you as if you were a common masher. It’s not true! It’s not true!” He sat, it seemed for hours, with these thoughts bouncing through every inch of his soul.
    Slowly, though, his fear and shame turned to vague imaginings. Visions emerged and the disjointed images became fantasies. His eyes stared unseeing toward the ceiling, his body stiffened in concentration, and his jaw dropped. The power and domination of the lions became his. A plot emerged, one that he knew he would eventually act out. There he was, the star of his own horror show.



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