Part Two of "Creeper"

This is the conclusion of an original short story. If you haven't read part one, be sure to do that before reading the conclusion. I'll be posting thoughts about writing this short story next Wednesday.

*          *          *          *

I walk around like the boss. It’s been three months. The system keeps expanding, but never faster than my ability to keep it organized in that other gray computer. I’ve got it all color-coded now, which helps a lot. I’ve always considered myself to be one of those logical data-crunchers, but I think I’m discovering an artistic side. Maybe I’ll quit this paper-chase to sink crosses in piss and shit or something, haha.

            

The night before I’d obtained biblical knowledge of the fourth girl in as many weeks. I still have that fear of failure in the back of my mind, but these days all it does is make the success even more exciting than it would be otherwise. The System is just that good. I haven’t missed a name and I was only wrong about a girl being in a “save the dogs” charity one time and I just played it off like it was a joke. Yeah, this works well. I almost wonder if the time has come to share it with the world. For a fee, of course. Maybe not. Cash isn’t exactly in short supply and I like to think that there’s a certain dignity to this exercise. It’s not one of those as seen on TeeVee gimmicks.

            

I actually went to one of those “how to get girls” seminars at a fancy hotel a few years ago. Yeah. I was the youngest sucker in the room, lots of balding old bastards sweating grease and wearing gold chains over hairy chests and fat guts. All you need, Mr. Scumbag, is a few magic phrases and you’ll be getting 18-year-old pussy. That’s how it was. The pick-up expert was, of course, young and good looking. All nail polish and funny hats, which was probably just for appearances.

            

He had a lot of energy, I’ll give him that. Bouncing from one side of the room to the other like a well-manicured tennis ball, constantly firing off ideas that would help transform the human slugs packed into the room into lady killers. We were supposed to insult them. We were supposed to be arrogant and unconventional. Hold that drink by your belt, not up near your mouth! Something about clawing onto dance floors. That was the exact word, clawing. There was a ten minute intermission halfway through. I used that opportunity to leave.

            

Maybe some of that stuff had value, but it didn’t fit my own very unique and special circumstances. There’s nothing that screams “special and different” more than being one of several interchangeable suits in a randomly selected office building nearly identical to a hundred others. That’s all changed now. I’m now the dissenting voice in the wilderness, the modern rebel.

             

And I’m getting laid. A lot.

           

*          *          *          *

The only fear now, apart from the usual shit about the west collapsing when the browns rise up or some jihadan blowing up my building, is that I’m getting complacent and not pushing for even more. It’s been nearly a year since that moment of direct communication with a force that some, in their ignorance, call “God.” The spreadsheet now stretches for several full screens in both directions. From modest beginnings it now represents a Wonder of the Modern World. Logic and reason have conquered the land of emotion and frivolity and now rule over it with absolute authority. I have cut the Gordian knot, crossed the Rubicon and slayed countless boom-boom kitties.

            

I’m now some sort of Vice President. I do even less for even more. The change in my demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by the invisible wire-pullers, I guess. Better move this guy up. I’ve got a huge corner office now and I come and go as I please. The day’s work usually takes ten minutes, if that. The rest of the time is spent devising ways to take this game to the next level. The Ottoman harem has been realized. The final level, if I dare, is full-blown Ghengis Khan game. I think it’s time.

            

Maybe a year or two after that pick-up workshop I was deep in the computer dating. I was still in school, now a graduate student, and it seemed like a convenient way to meet virtuous young ladies to discuss the good and beautiful with. Maybe in theory. I wrote lots of cutesy little e-mails, shit like made-up screenplays and semi-clever poems and sent them out to likely candidates. The response was deafening silence, until finally a hot little number liked a Casablanca homage I sent her. We arranged to meet for some of that hot brown liquid. Rock and roll.

            

Long story shorter, she didn’t show. Instead the coffee house was jammed full of other men, all of whom seemed to be looking around for a special someone. Fuck, we’d been set up! Get out, abort, abort! Or just turn and leave in dejection, whatever. On the way out the door some kid of perhaps eighteen snapped a picture of me with his phone, yelled “White Knight,” and ran off through an ally.

It seems like a completely different life.

            

I was back on the train after another day of vice presidenting for those big bucks. The Ice Bitch was there. I don’t think she remembered me. I walked over and did an “opening.” It’s all a scientific process now, so totally predictable. Ask a few unexpected and unusual questions. “I’m looking for a book recommendation, what do you think would be most appropriate for me?” and “Do you ever get a little sick from the train’s movement?” All too easy. A few of those put-downs I paid $80 to learn about years ago, some light touching, follow the flow-chart, one step at a time.

            

Later I inserted my penis into her vagina.

*          *          *          *

           

Disaster! I’ve been exposed! Ok, I’ll slow down and tell it right. Like every great tragedy the mighty man was brought low by hubris. I got way too sloppy. I left everything in a vulnerable position and got found out. She must have been rooting through my things, the way women do, while I was enjoying some post-coitus oblivion. Stupid, stupid! The lap top was right there on the table, turned on even. I think the file might have even been open. It all comes crashing down.

             

Then the internet celebrity, like that fat kid pretending to be yoda and all that. Two days later and it had circled the globe, the creepy fuck with the spreadsheets full of women. The language generated wasn’t exactly of the tolerant and non-judgmental sort that is supposed to be used. E-mail box just exploded, full of angry harpies and laughing male losers who probably wish they had thought of it first, but can now bite deep into the sour grapes and savor the misery. Even the phone was going off before I shut it off. Lots of screaming, you better believe it.

            

The security guards arrived at the office today, to show me out and make sure I don’t go all American Psycho up in this bitch or something. That’s wonderful, being treated like a criminal. Clean out the drawers. They marched me out of the building. Probably would have taken even more liberties if there weren’t witnesses everywhere. On the midday train I don’t recognize anyone. They probably sense I’m an outsider. Everywhere I’m hiding from looks full of accusation and contempt.

             

The sun just went down. I’m deep into the whiskey, probably gonna really accelerate the pace now, ha, ha. I checked the e-mail one last time, just morbid curiosity, thousands of messages. One push of that delete key, see ya. Just a setback, just a setback. This too shall pass, right? The booze barely burns at all now, just slides down nice and easy.

            

My turn to use the phone, call that bitch from the train. Again, just one push of a button to do it, age of miracles. It just rings. It’s dark now. Pour another glass. Getting sent to voice mail. Got to play this one just right. Concede, but don’t actually apologize, that’s the way. My speech is slurring just a little. I tell her to get over here and bring back the disc she took. It is, after all, my property. After that we can start again, sadder and wiser.

             

The call is over. Through the window I see the city lights, dancing through the Tennessee Lenses like distant stars or that Van Gogh painting. Something like that, I’m not an artist. Tomorrow I can hide. Everything seems peaceful for the moment.

            

One final gulp.

            

I’ll find something better.

*          *          *          *

Aaron Zehner is the author of The Foolchild Invention, available now.

Part One of "Creeper"

I got the idea when I couldn’t remember her name. It was one of those moments of extreme clarity when unrelated threads come together in a surprising way, revealing a suddenly obvious answer in a flash of genius. A moment of invention and inspiration, a divine gift received from an unknown hand. I wanted to stand up and shout, to completely embrace this moment of transcendence, but this would violate the laws of semi-formal dining and obviously this was the last thing I’d ever want to do.
  
I think her name was Jenny or Jenna or some variation on that theme. If she had noticed my moment of prescience there was no outward indication, as the soft droning about a human resources career continued. In a bit of serendipity it was that very choice of topic that reminded me of my own highly stimulating employment and led to The Revelation. That was the thing: it had been right in front of my face the entire time. I guess the solution, no matter how obscure, always seems simple once it is revealed.
  
“Well?” Shit, I was expected to engage in actual human interaction with this delightful collage of legs, breast, lips and so on. Just don’t panic, that was the trick. With enthusiasm from the discovery threatening to explode at any moment into socially awkward elation I needed to play this one close.
  
“Well, people are just crazy sometimes. There’s nothing to do about it.” She made a non-committal clicking noise before tucking back into pricey, nicely arranged vittles. Kick is up, kick is good.  
  
I settled my gaze on breasts that were about 80% exposed. Yeah, that’s nice. It pulled me back into the moment, at least a little bit. Get some of that blood out of the brain. My own meal, some sort of steak mix, was growing cold, largely uneaten. Let it go, let it go.
  
She talked some more about something or other. I guess the remains of the night really have blurred down to just a few impressions. I’m almost certain I still got her name wrong at the apartment door, destroying any lingering possibility of canine postures. It didn’t even matter. With the new way, the unexpected invention, the future looked bright for the first time in a long time.

*    *    *    *
   
I was supposed to be working, but you know how it is. There’s maybe an hour of actual tasks, but it’s always spread out over eight. Client wants this, client wants that, rich old boy needs help using the big boy bathroom or is afraid a dinosaur might get him. In between these crises where they’re losing a billion dollars a second and it’s all up to me to save the day there’s the big empty. Sit behind the desk, wear uncomfortable clothes and look busy. These are the main qualifications for the new world we’re entering.
  
With a few purposeful key strokes, the vision of the previous evening began to align itself with the physical reality. The spreadsheet format was going to be perfect, that was for sure. If anything this idea was too good, as I found myself getting carried away with the amount of possible data. Keep it under control for now. You can always add more, right? It’s the taking away that’s so fucking hard. I had name fields, occupation fields, maybe a few that would track the progress of the dates. Interests? Personality? I wondered if that was even needed, what with all the similarity. Put it in the “maybe” category for now.
  
Things were shaping up nicely when a silk-clad form burst through my door. Another emergency. The Patriot Manufacturing Corp.stock was crashing. Apparently their factory in China was moving to Bangladesh or Bora Bota or something and investors were in a lather over it. It wasn’t going to lose any real value, probably come out ahead. Time to call the client, give assurances, burp him and change him. The project would have to wait.

*    *    *    *

Real progress! I had three dates with three different women last week and had no problem keeping track of all those little details like names and so on. I was actually surprised at just how easy it was, as if a small corner of my mind where the inner critic dwells still doubts the miracle, even as I’m striding over the water. That little voice of doubt has fallen silent now and for good reason.
  
It’s so easy. I just review the spreadsheet for an hour or so at the office before each night out. To an untrained eye it even looks like I’m actually doing something from the job description. The way the data is organized, it doesn’t even seem like effort to process it. Then, like magic, it’s ready at critical moments later on. I remember that she loves the little brown people or isn’t religious but very spiritual or whatever the exact bullshit is. You get the idea.
  
I was tossing these thoughts playfully back and forth on the train home when I saw the meltdown. Real scary stuff, oh yes. It’s all about a girl, of course. There’s this ice bitch that always seems to be on the same car with me when I’m heading home. You know the type, real pretty, nose either in the air or buried in a book, right in that sweet spot of life we all think is going to last forever. I tried to talk to her once, months ago, ask about the book. Yeah, I know. “What are you reading? Looks interesting,” just brutal. She didn’t even answer. Kind of turned her body to face away without actually leaving the seat. I flew solo that night.
  
Anyway, this other guy decided he’d try to solve this one piece puzzle. I missed the first part, because I was deep in the self-satisfied waking slumber, but the wailing exploding out of this guy brought me back quick. He was a college-type, all scruffy face and well-worn clothes, basically a bum but with still something to hope for and maybe slightly less fucked-up. He was getting loud. “You can at least talk to me! My mom just died last week! You fucking bitch! Bitch!”
  
That little transcript probably isn’t entirely accurate, you know poetic license and fuzzy memory and all. It’s probably not too far off. He kept yelling about female dogs and dead mothers, getting louder and louder. She just sat there like the rock of Gibraltar or something, maybe trying to chameleon into the seat, who knows. Eventually he just wore out from hitting all those high notes and got off at the next stop.
  
I guess I had a fair amount of sympathy. There but for the grace of and shit like that. I mean, he was just trying to “man up” like the television is always saying. Maybe take her out for milkshakes or ice skating but none of that will happen when no one is willing to recognize your humanity or even the fact that you’re made of matter and displacing part of the atmosphere. Then you’ll graduate and go nowhere and if you thought you were unattractive to the fairer sex now just wait until you’re a balding, impotent, under-employed forty year-old that spends every morning with a gun in his mouth and every night passed out drunk on the cheap stuff.
  
Luckily for me, I’d cracked the code. Lied my way into a decent bit of employment, put this foul-smelling foam on my melon twice a day to keep the crowning glory and pop little pills with letters on them so that blood will enter the third leg. And don’t forget the spreadsheets. I even felt a rush of inspiration, right there amongst the dregs and lost, the damned and forgotten. I popped out that lap top and got down on it.       

Well-washed hands flashed over the keypad, hammering out truth to power. “Bus Girl (name unknown). Likes: Reading, Being Left Alone. Dislikes: Being Screamed At, Being Talked to in Any Way.” Not bad, not bad at all. The motherless screamer would be avenged. By hook or by crook, I’m going to fuck that bitch.
  
And many others! Maybe even find a wife before nature really finishes me off. House and kids, fence and pies, all through the miracle of the age. Satisfied, I turned off the laptop and watched the city lights for awhile. 

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The second and concluding portion will be posted next week Wednesday. My First novel "The Foolchild Invention is currently available.