Phone Fun
By Scott Deckman
Sunday. Dec 17, 9:19 PM
Chapter 18: two paths converge.

“Lucy, Lucy, what do you think about this?”

“Oh God, it’s like so you, Amelda.”

They sat around in Mel’s rather fin de siecle loft apartment, thankful that none of the others were present. They were killing time with MSNBC and CNN and TBS and Animal Planet and HBO and… with each other, waiting for 10 or so to hustle on down to the Barrio to see Groovy Chicken prance around and cock-a-doodle-doo for all the smoothies, hipsters, and curious alike. Lucy had a Heine in one hand and a cig in the other (Ham was not only gonna kill her, but beat her to death at the rate she was headed), waiting passively for Ashleigh Banfield to get to the good stuff, pornstar glasses looking suspiciously like the ones Mel wore but stridently defended.

“There are disturbing reports out of Washington, D.C. tonight on a story that has been brewing for some time. It seems that a serial killer is said to be loose on the streets of both D.C. and Baltimore, responsible for as many as eight deaths, and authorities fear there may be more.”

Ashleigh grinned that grin you grin when you have to break the news to your subordinates: but you really cared about them.

“And that’s not even the most bizarre thing about this, as police are being led to believe that the killer may have some connection to Harvard University. For more on this disturbing news story, we go to Norah O’Donnell. Norah?”

“Thanks Ashleigh. Tonight, here in the nation’s capital, a terrifying story is developing. Both police here and in Baltimore are on the lookout for a serial killer who is believed to have killed as many as eight victims: and they fear he may be responsible for some other recent disappearances as well. And whoever the killer is, he’s targeting young women and mutilating their bodies horribly, and while most of the victims are White, police say at least one of the victims is believed to be Hispanic. And the lurid nature of the mystery was upped a notch when a Harvard class ring was found in a tub of acid refuse containing, what police fear, the bones of the eighth victim. Parents, you may want to shoo the kids away from the television for this next report, as it is very shocking and chilling.”

Cut to scene in front of George Washington University.

“George Washington University, home to an academic institution known the world over for its excellence and achievement, a school that belts out United States in star-spangled colors. It is a place for learning, a place to build relationships, a place for the young to get their start in the world and expand their horizons (shots of campus life, classrooms, athletic fields, bars, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, former President Bill Clinton). Tonight, however, it seems that police have reason to suspect a serial murderer may have claimed the lives of two of its students, both young women, 20-year-old Sherri Boggs and 23-year-old Jennifer Sciato.”

Cut to DCPD Spokesperson Timothy George, looking a little pink in the camera’s light.

Lucy shook her head at the futility.

Have these people ever heard of gels?

“…There seems to be a connection that would lead us to believe, in both the Baltimore and D.C. areas, that there is a predator on the loose. Most of the victims we’ve attributed to the perpetrator have similar characteristics: they’re female, Caucasian, in their 20s, thin, and they’ve all been mutilated in various, consistent ways.”

And the band played on.

“Oh my God…” Lucy looked at Mel, who started shaking her head in a futile can’t-believe-this gaze, slight baked-on half-smile present.

“That’s sick, man.”

“I know, I know.”

The telecast went on to explain, in garish detail, how, along with the latest victim’s remains, a Harvard ring was found in the bottom of a tub of sulfuric acid refuse. Granted, the ring was in terrible shape and not much could be made of it, neither the year issued or, most importantly, whom the ring belonged to. In fact, the only thing recognizable on sight was the unmistakable Harvard seal. Given its different MO, police weren’t commenting on why they suspected this to be part of the string of murders, saying only that it fit “certain parameters.”

“Damn Lucy, and you thought things were bad out here. Looks like you got yourself a real mess out there.”

“I know, I know,” Lucy blew out a few petulant rings into the indifferent air. At a distance of 2,840 miles and three time zones, it could afford to be. “Least I haven’t had to do anything on it yet.”

“Well?” Mel’s gaze raked Lucy like hot coals, her body cloaked in a horizontal orange and yellow-striped mini and sleeveless navy blue polyester blouse, capped off with her goofball barrettes and burnt orange sandals.

“Well, well what?”

“The outfit? Still too, what did you call it, retro-’80s wannabe ’90s listening to Blind Melon-y?”

“Huh…” Lucy was stirred, out of a daydream as opaque and silent as they come, of nothing: space, in all its void. “Yeah,” she smiled. “That’s better Mel, that’s way better.”

*****

Penance seemed a thing completed, or at least the hard-worn purgatory part was over, and it wasn’t like she could hide, just scamper at the sight of her own weakness, her own blasphemy, her own underlying sinful self. It was better, she decided, she and God had decided, that she give it another whirl, another go, to test those single shark waters again, and this time with more temperance, more restraint, more caution and circumspection… more faith. Cuz when she got down to it, it was only her faith in Christ that really meant anything to her, and testing her volition, her motivation, her will, that was where she could shine for Him like a beacon of light in the haze of degradation and shame. This was what Marylynn was doing on the phone for the second night in a row talking to this Gilmer Sullivan fellow, someone she met on this new Telefun thing (which was free for girls and for all you first-time guys out there). She was trying out this new phone service, ostensibly, so she’d make choices based purely on voice and graceful overtures, measures of faith, not on mere sight of the human body… at least that’s what she told herself. But it still didn’t stop them from exchanging pics already, though only after she spent a long while on the phone with him last night. He was okay, a little brownish-blonde, a little average, but she wasn’t going to let that be her underlying guide anymore. God expected more from her. And the talking was going good: they had been chatting for over two hours tonight and while a bit odd, he did have a nice, soothing voice that was hard to place, and she found it opened her up and made her feel safe. And tonight, some trust was being built.

“…Nuh-uh. He did not!”

“He did, I swear to you. It was before Sunday Mass when I was 12.”

“I heard you Catholics were bad, but not that bad!”

“I’m serious, Mom liked to have killed’m. But I had to open my mouth about the gum, ‘Dad, why are you chewing gum like that? Would you please knock it off?’ And up went the hand into the mouth, out came the Wrigley’s, and into my hair it descended. Gummyhead be thy name! That’s what Jen and Sean called me after that for a few years, on and off, and it even became Sullivan lore. Dinnertime chat, ‘Hey, do you remember that time when Dad stuck the gum in Gilmer’s head?’ Mom’s eyebrows rising sharply, eyes narrowing: ‘That was not funny.’ But even she’d laugh when in a good mood. Real funny, eh?”

Marylynn, laughing. “Oh Gilmer, that’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, well, Mom didn’t think so. She had to cut the gunk out of there and she’d say never again. And luckily that was true, there was never any more gum in my hair. There was that time…”

“Was that time what?”

“Oh nothing… ah…”

Gilmer, be it a force of otherworldly zeal or maybe this chick was spiritually protected, hadn’t even gotten the thing out yet and they’d been blabbering away for about 45 minutes. Sure, he’d been stroking it, but that was something he’d do when he was by himself half the time anyway out of force of habit, but this girl just seemed too nice, and that was precisely the juxtaposition: the more disgusting the defloration, the more satisfaction derived. Usually. But this was tonight. Last night, scared of her catching him, he had to go to the bathroom and finish himself off and the aurally myopic Christian didn’t suspect a thing. I mean, he went in there, twice, portended by noticeable changes in pitch and utterance: undulating cords wavering just slightly.

“Gilmer, why can’t you tell me? I told you some pretty embarrassing things.”

“Like what?”

“Like that time Mom caught me with my boyfriend on the tractor.”

“Yeah, but you guys were just kissing.”

“Well, I was only 15.”

She left out the lurid, intimate details she tried unsuccessfully through kitchen knives, bawling, and supplication to banish to hell forever.

“Well… okay, this is pretty funny, and it’s pretty, well, it’s a little dirty.”

“Okay,” the voice fluttered a little, like she became 13 suddenly, just starting to menstruate.

Here comes the erection.

“Uh… well, anyway. How about later?”

“No, tell me now!”

“How about this?”

“What?”

“How about we make plans to meet on Saturday like we talked about.”

“Then you’ll tell me?”

“Yeah, yeah, then I’ll tell you, I promise. But I don’t wanna take the risk of your mother getting on here and catching me telling this ribald tale when we don’t have our shit – oops, sorry…”

“It’s okay, I know you mean well… and this is my own line, remember?”

“Yeah… hahaha… hahaha.”

“What? I’m giving you a pass. Listen, just because I have a strong faith in Jesus doesn’t mean I’m perfect. I’m flexible, to a degree.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Gilmer! Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Actually he wasn’t happy about the Jesus thing: it kinda creeped him out, doing this with her, like he wasn’t hexed enough. Playing with old J.C., if He indeed was Son of God, well, maybe he should just leave well enough alone.

“I’m trying, but it seems like it’s planted and taken up permanent residence there. Haven’t you seen plants, you know, the little ugly weeds that grow in gutters in the city, between the cracks? Well, that’s me.”

“Oh Gilmer, you’re so cute, you know that?”

“I’ve a… been told, frequently, breathlessly.”

“Oh Lord here we go again!”

He imagined her cute little face smiling angelically, awesome shade of blue eyes peering up at him from down there, her tongue, her shoulders, her seeming purity: then the Christ thing: yikes!

“Okay, so ah… sheeze, where do you wanna meet? I’m way up here and you’re way down there, Reston, right?”

“Yeah, fabulous Reston, where all the techie dorks are. That’s me. I’m refusing to buy into all that hype. I’m almost glad all those money-grubbers got their comeuppance.”

“Hey, aren’t you the one in love with her Mac?”

“Yeah… I… well, that’s different. I mean…”

“I’m just playing.”

“As long as we’re clear on that,” came out a little Lolita-grown up.

He wanted this speculative information done with.

“So… where do you wanna meet, there, in Northern Virginia, D.C., here? I don’t think you’d wanna come here.”

“And why not?”

“Well, ah…”

“I’ll have you know, Gilmer, I drive to work and to school and everywhere else all by myself. I’m a big girl. Plus, I really like the Inner Harbor. Maybe we can meet at the Hard Rock or ESPN Zone?”

“Cool, hey, if you wanna do that then that’ll be fine. Saves me from trying to find Reston.”

“Well, don’t worry your pretty little head none about it Gilmer. I really like it there – the harbor – there’s plenty of things to do if we, well, get in a fight or something.”

“Yeah, really, always a prerequisite for me when I hook up on a blind date: have a place to hide.”

“Hah hah Gilmer. You know we have to be careful these days, especially these days. And double especially the girls.”

“Yeah… I know. Especially someone as pretty and delicate as you.”

“Thank you,” she gushed over the phone.

Again, intimate images flashed on the windowpane of his soul: blunt, racy, slick, wet things.

“Yeah, I looked like hell in my picture.”

“You didn’t look that bad.”

“Oh thanks, thanks a lot.”

“Hey, you’re cute, you look… fine.”

“Hmmmmm, real encouraging there Marylynn.”

“Oh Gilmer… I don’t know. I kinda feel like we’ve known each other for a long time now, and we just met on this thing last night, isn’t that kinda cool?”

“Yeah, it is.”

In fact, he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing meeting someone so entwined and scoured in the Spirit, and he assumed she was downplaying. It was almost as if she was on some type of jihad, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, and Lord knows the other girls he met off this thing weren’t as innocent; and maybe one was as cute, and that chick, like most of these whores, was trashy, a total idiot once you got past the fact that she was a girl with a wet pussy and pretty hair and eyes and arms and legs and ass and tits. He was pretty pathetic; maybe she’d help him be less of a leech. And pigs are flying over Moscow this very moment.

“Yeah… and your voice, it makes me feel secure. I don’t know, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“No, no, ramble on Marylynn, my ego approves, if not my better sense of reality.”

“Hmmmm… so ah, well, how about at say, 7, or let’s make it 8 on Saturday at the Hard Rock, or do you want to make it a day date?”

“No, no, night’s cool, I have to work until 5:30, so 8 would be great. That sounds awesome. So at the Hard Rock, at the bar I guess?”

“Yeah… I’ll be there with my wimpy lemonade.”

“Yeah, and I’ll use that as signpost. Lay off the strong stuff Gilmer.”

“Hmmm…”

“Yeah… uhmhmm… I like yours too.”

“My… what?”

“Well now, hmmm.”

“Gilmer! Be nice.”

“I am.”

“My what, what do you like too?”

“I like your voice, and the fact that you seem sweet and somewhat not insane.”

“Oh… hmmm… hey, wait a second! Now you have to tell me your dirty little secret! What did you do?!”

“Hmmmm… well, nope, I’ve decided against it. Nope, sorry, can’t.”

“Gilmer, don’t hold out on me!”

Heat, light, juice.

“Can’t.”

“Gilmer!”

“Nope, sorry, I…”

“Gilmer!”

“Well, then I guess I’m gonna have to be frank with you, aren’t I, you being the big girl, capable of handling it.”

“Yes, yes. I can handle anything, I’m sure of it. So… do tell Gilmer.”

He shook his head, belly’s butterflies flapping, and that wandering hand.

“Okay, the scene. I’m lying on the couch: nothing wrong there, right, late at night, probably like 1 or 2? I’m in my first year at Towson, alone on a Friday night, didn’t have anywhere to go, poor me, right? Well, I had occasion to rent some Jenna Jameson thing or something or other at the local porno video store, the real snazzy kind with the front saying Family and some cheesy curtained bead thing partitioning off the back room, you know… well, maybe you don’t know the kind, but most losers like me find the time to frequent…”

“You’re not a loser,” her face was featureless, intonation hushed.

“Anyway. I get the video, Jenna Does Dallas, no, no, Anal Pirates, I don’t know, pretty sad, right? All alone on a Friday getting my groove on to video sex, what a life! So here I am, pounding it, in the dark, downstairs in the family room. About an hour into the thing, and I’ve been careful to be careful, not cuming out of some narcissistic thrill or delay, I wanted the right scene to get off to… are you okay over there?”

“Yes…”

“Okay, just checking. I don’t want to hurt your sensibilities. Know how dev…”

“Keep going… keep going, it’s okay.”

“Okay…” he breathed in, the jackhammer starting its work. “So ah, oh God Marylynn. So there I am, pounding away, really getting into it, Jenna’s getting it in the rear in this one scene, with this crazy look on her gorgeous face, all sweaty, and then there’s some other dude, on the ground under her, jerking himself and sucking Jenna’s luscious melons, lathering those things with his tongue and they’re all wet and juicy and ungodly huge and I’m about to explode. Then I suddenly hear this sound at the top of the stairs, but it’s too late, it’s gonna cum! So I shoot off about three or four rounds as fast as I can squeeze them out, not knowing where they land, pants up lickety-split, and grab the remote and hit stop as Mom gets to the bottom of the stairs… and thank God I had the sound down! She’s like, ‘Gilmer, do you have any idea of what time it is?!’ I’m like, who knows what type of crap I spewed. Long story short, I had to act like I had fallen asleep or something and then wait for her to go back upstairs. And here’s the real rotten, disgusting part. When I came I got it all over the couch, the end table and even a few of her favorite magazines, Ladies’ Home Journal and Cosmopolitan being the most prominent. I mean, how am I gonna explain that! So here I was, as quietly as possible, going to the kitchen to start my cleanup, replete with cleaners, hot water, sponges, the works!”

For her sake, he didn’t mention that another of the books he soiled with his love juice was his mother’s Bible. Even he didn’t like thinking about that, made him shiver, yet it somehow made it all the more dangerous telling her bits and pieces, knowing how the damnable part would nix the deal, playing with fire just out of the synaptic cleft… made it all extra sexy.

“Oh God Gilmer,” she said in a lower, somewhat constricted voice, breathing in audibly, aging quite a bit. “Oh Gilmer that was bad.”

He was in the middle of breaking a newly minted cardinal rule: never whack off with someone you’re gonna meet in a couple days, newly minted about a half-hour ago. He was busy fondling the thing, almost amazed at the turn of events, her voice, thinking of those pretty lips around his manhood, that voice! Oh how he loved being rotten, scum.

“Oh Gilmer, I can’t believe you,” she chuckled, trying to get that throat back to safer environs: but it was stuck.

“Yeah, but,” hardness keeping him somewhat occupied. “Haven’t you ever done anything like that… or, I don’t mean to offend you. God I’m sorry,” he stopped the rubbing.

“Maybe…”

BingFUCKINGo.

“Maybe, what do you mean? What are saying over there Marylynn? What, baby?”

“Ah…”

“Marylynn?” he breathed in as silent as he could, about to lose it completely.

“Ah… well…”

“Yeah huh?”

“I no…”

“Yes you can, I did. You gotta tell me.” He was close to losing his cover. “Baby?”

“I… ah… well once… once…”

There was complete silence for five seconds, the longest so far in the nascent century.

“And… once?”

“Once, once I let… once I let this older guy…”

“Once you let this older guy? Once you let this older guy what?”

“I shouldn’t… I…”

“It’s okay sweetie, it’s okay… it’s okay to… let it out.”

“Once…”

“Yes… once.”

“Once,” her voiced stammered again. “I can’t.”

“Yes, Marylynn, you can. Please, please, tell me.”

“Once I let him fuck me with his cock.”

“Oh… did you… cum?”

A silent hymn.

“Yehhssss…”

“Huh,” he breathed out while ejaculating, thinking of doing it inside her, those skinny hips, that pretty little face in agonized euphoria, mouth, eyes, ears, like she was the living Venus, the only thing that mattered.

“I gotta go.”

“Huh? Marylynn? Mar…”

ERRRRRRR…

“Oh shit.”

He hit redial.

It rang twice, then he got the busy signal.

He tried again twice more, same result.

“Huhhhhhhhewwwww…” he let out a long breath, heartbeat loud as a thumper, body’s toxicity alarming, trying to console his hubris, his lusty avarice, his shitty little currency.

He laid back paralyzed, his eyes open but not seeing. Laid that way for awhile, too. Just… nothing: vague ruminations, neurotransmitters-cum-neuropeptides not happy, in shock, as if protecting and preparing simultaneously, but mostly, connections weren’t being made in the cerebrum, autonomic realm the real conductor here, as periphery became his only salvation, crooked at best.

Soon he flipped on the junk box, settling in for his admonishment through cathode-ray tube and analog coaxial, plastic remotes and humanoid images of light and sound, a kaleidoscopic panorama of unfolding garbage that was the nation’s collective nighttime viewing. Automatically, as if by rote, the channel fell to 3, Skinemax (some Martin Lawrence action/comedy flick), and just as soon went to Showtime, a soft porn he’d seen about a half-dozen times: one he’d even recorded parts of for exploratory pleasures. He watched the man and woman in ersatz coital bliss, him holding her surprisingly real breasts, probably nice Cs, a little sagging for his tastes, and the guy, typical softie Cro-Magnon hunk (blonde, buff, retread bodybuilder). Then it was on to some religious station, of which seemed to outnumber the sinful productions these days: who knew? He watched the middle-aged couple espousing the love of Jesus Christ, about their mission to spread His gospel to a global audience, about the fact that He had a plan for everyone in the world, even him, Gilmer Sullivan, if he would just hear God’s easy message and heed the call. It was the only way to heaven, to not perish and have everlasting life. The guy, on the short side of 60, ridiculous in a gold-colored mane, smothered eyes and a smile that made him almost clownlike, a clown in bad stead, he ignored, but unto the woman, attractive in a cancerous way with her equally golden blonde hair, full mouth and great bone structure, he paid strict, rapt attention.

Seemed she too, like Gilmer, had wandered in the abyss of sex and alcohol, drowning in the sinful wilderness like those in the Book of Numbers, and one day she was set free from the temporal torment we were all born into and lustfully participated in by accepting Jesus Christ: the true savior and emancipator of souls and the only true route to happiness. It was all so easy yet so few acquiesced.

He watched them prattle on and on for a good 10 minutes until they broke for commercial, and then he switched to Nick at Nite and caught The Jeffersons, a good one too, “Marathon Men,” the episode where George and Tom have the human drama of athletic competition in Central Park, with the dry cleaning maven trying to win by any means possible (oxygen tank, surreptitious cab ride, the bending of his moral compass, Weezy and Roxie Roker and Ralph the Doorman hijinks): a harmless, guiltless spirituality all its own.

Scott Deckman

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