Hobbies and Lies

" Make a left here- the side street- now kill the lights."

"Kill the...why? Oh. Right."

I never was able to lie to Kathy- she was smarter than me and besides, she knew every trick- but this was different. Earlier that evening I had told her a story that would have caused most women to flee in justifiable panic- but not Kathy.

Her response was : " We can take my car."
I loved her.
I had lied to her.
Now we were in her car heading downhill through the darkness towards a quiet suburban cul-de-sac and that lie was on my mind as I gave her instructions. It's for her own good, I told myself.

"Let me out here- kill the engine and coast down to the circle. Turn the car around and park in front of one of the houses they aren't finished building yet...turn the motor on but keep the lights off and watch for me in the street."

"Watch for you? Are you planning on leaving in a hurry?"

"Yes."

"I'm unlocking the backdoor then. Don't waste time running to the passenger side, just bail in the back."

I loved her alright. She knew all the tricks.

A kiss for luck later and I was standing in front of a dimly- lit rancher, a much older house than most of the cookie-cutter prefabs that were encroaching on it.
Those newer dwellings were not here the last time I was in this neighborhood- they looked vacant, unfinished, unoccupied.
Good.
Neighbors might ruin my plan.

Not that I had much of a plan- Kathy was the planner and I couldn't tell her about this- I wanted her to be able to pass a polygraph if it came down to it, so she couldn't know what I was going to do. What I thought I was going to do, anyway.

From the front, the ranch house seemed empty and dark, but as I crept closer I could hear the noodling, vaporous notes of a Grateful Dead guitar solo, and as I rounded a carefully placed cluster of tall shrubbery I saw that the rear of the home was well-lit, illumination pouring out of the sliding glass kitchen doors and into the ill-kept backyard. It sounded like a small party was in progress-damn!- and there was a tall wooden fence that wasn't here last time.

Last time. That was supposed to be the final visit, but here I was again. Lies had brought me back.

The gate was locked.

I found a plastic trash can outside the garage and gently rolled it towards the backyard. The contents of the receptacle clattered and rattled as I inched it along and I was glad that the music inside house was so loud.
I placed the can next to the fence and climbed onto the sagging lid.

Crap. There were two hippie kids sitting at a wooden table on the back porch, one boy , one girl. The music was coming from a boom box on the table between them.

They looked to be a few years younger than myself, they probably should have been in High School. They hadn't seen me or heard my approach, the boy was engrossed in rolling a joint and the girl was talking - I couldn't make out the words, but she was speaking in vacant and reverential tones...probably extolling the virtues of Ralph, the man I was here to visit.

If I timed it right, I could probably drop onto the porch and sneak into the kitchen without either kid seeing me. I pushed myself up off the wobbly trash can and scrambled over the fence.

The momentum from my push was too much for the unsteady wastebin and it fell over backwards with a clatter, almost drowning out the loud thud I made when I landed on the wooden porch. The two kids turned around in stoned surprise.

"What's up?" , asked the boy.

"Are you OK?", the girl followed.

Jesus, I thought, I must look like one of them except I'm wearing all black and grey sneakers; not tie-dyes and barefeet like them , my shoulder-length hair is tied in a perfect Kathy-made ponytail much like the one the boy has- a few years ago and I could have been that kid. Not anymore. Things had changed since then.

Why are they so relaxed? I don't have a disguise- can't they tell what I am? Don't they know why I'm here?
I hadn't expected a calm response. I hadn't expected any response.

This wasn't supposed to be that sort of visit. I had murder on my mind and these dumb kids were asking me if I was OK, as if it were normal for other kids to appear from out of nowhere in the middle of the night.

Knowing Ralph's "hobbies", it probably was normal.

Still, I had come here to kill Ralph and it pissed me off that these Deadhead kids didn't find me threatening. They should be scared.
They should run.

The boy puffs up the joint, offers it to me.

"No thanks, I'm here to see Ralph."

"Oh. He's inside, upstairs."

"Upstairs? There is no upstairs in this house."

"Yeah, man. The attic, ya know?", the boy looks at me suspiciously, offers me the joint again. "You aren't a cop are you? You have to tell us if you are."

"Yeah, maaaaan", I answer, mocking his stoner drawl while I lie to him , "I am a cop. This place is getting raided in five minutes. You have 60 seconds to get away."

"Whoah..." says the boy.
"But our stuff is inside," protests the girl.

"45 seconds", I reply and they vanish into the night.
The backyard gate is now unlocked.
Good.

I enter into the kitchen- empty. I peer into the darkened living room- there are heavy blankets on the windows - for privacy, I'm sure; cocooned bodies slumber on the two sofas and most of the floor space, probably teenage runaways. The room smells unclean.

Like I said, Ralph has "hobbies".

Halfway down the adjoining hallway there's a pull-down trapdoor staircase leading up to the attic. Another tangle-haired hippie boy sits there, he's awake but he's just sitting there- I don't even know if he's aware that I'm watching him.

What the fuck is wrong with these kids? Have their lives been so full of fucked-up craziness that they don't even blink when a killer crosses their path? Is it so bad for them that they consider this house to be a 'safe place'?

I can't allow myself to worry about that right now.

When I approach him I notice the boy's wide pie-eyes. He's tripping really, really hard; no wonder he doesn't respond- I'm an hallucination.
He should be scared.
I'm terrified of myself. Why isn't anyone afraid of me?

I can't get upstairs without moving the hippie and I move him rather roughly.
I want him to be afraid.
I want him to be hurt, but all he does is roll on the scuffed wooden floor and look up at me with eyes that are larger than his universe.

"Oh man, what're you doin'...can't go up there... Ralph is busy...whoah..."

Oh hell. This pitiful kid is on sentry duty for Ralph. That means Ralph is probably fucking this kid's teenage girlfriend right now.

Hobbies.

Ralph is evil but he's not stupid. Halfway up the rickety folding stairs there's a hanging bead curtain with metal wind chimes tied to the beaded threads. It's going to be impossible to get through it without causing the chimes to ring.

So much for a surprise attack.

The kid on the floor starts yelling.

"Hey! Hey!..." , his voice trails off, I look back and see he's noticed something cosmic in the woodgrain of the floorboards and is staring intensely at nothing.

Nothing left to do but rush upstairs.

For a moment I'm lost. The upstairs grotto is a patchwork nightmare of every tacky piece of pseudo-counterculture trash I've ever seen: psychedelic paisley tapestries, Che; Mao; Lennon and blacklight Hendrix posters vie for room on the crowded walls, incense fills the air - and of course there's plenty of Ralph's paintings - stupidly, I find myself wondering how they are affixed to the sloping interior walls of the attic hideaway...
I barely notice the two naked girls on the mattress across the room and they don't seem to notice me either- but Ralph has seen me.

He's scared and naked, his eyes only need one glance to know why I'm here - he starts scanning the room for something...his clothes? A weapon?

Finally, someone who is afraid of me.

To the children in this house, Ralph is a savior; a messiah; a God; a Prophet; a Shepherd who loves his flock.
He is their Family.

To me, Ralph is a pedophile who can't find his pants.

To Ralph, I am The End.

There's nothing in the room to use as a weapon, this is a fuck-chamber of pillows and mattresses. I should have brought something with me.

If I hadn't lied to Kathy, she'd have known what to bring and what to do with it after I was finished, but I had lied to her and now it was just me, my bare hands and a naked Ralph.
I hadn't even worn gloves.
My fingerprints are all over the murder scene and the victim isn't even dead yet.

So much for plans.

Ralph starts telling me lies. He is really sorry. He didn't know. It was a mistake. Let him explain...after all, he's known me since I was little boy, he's my Mother's friend, he didn't mean to hurt her...Ralph has just said all the wrong things and he suddenly knows it. He knows.

He stops lying and the room is silent except for the muffled weeping coming from one of his teenage 'brides'.

I haven't thrown a punch in years- I am no warrior- but I get really lucky and knock Ralph down with one blow to the face.
He whimpers in unison with the girls he had been molesting.

His penis attempts to retreat into his greying pubic hair and I assist it with my right foot, wishing I'd worn my hiking boots and not my sneakers. More lousy planning. Kathy would have made sure I had boots, gloves and other proper tools for the job.
Why did I lie to her?

Frustrated, I kick Ralph in the balls. Something feels squishy under my foot and Ralph suddenly gets pale and sweaty- I'm almost certain that he's lost track of what is happening to him - it's hard to separate the sounds he makes from the noises the girls across the room are making- pure animal sounds of fear and suffering. Some are coming from me.

This is the fear that I wanted. This is the suffering that I felt.

Feel this, Ralph?

In the teeth. This is for my mother.

In the nose. This is for the girls up here.

In the ribs. This is for the children downstairs.

I grind the sole of my sneaker into his face and that one is for me.

I am done.

I've been here too long. Kathy will be worried. Again, I wish I hadn't lied to her.

I told her I was coming here to buy cocaine and she knows people sometimes get hurt in the course of such transactions- I don't want her coming in to see if I'm OK. She doesn't need to know about Ralph. She doesn't need to know this much about me.

Ralph is moving. He's shakily reaching for a wooden box and I think he's probably got a gun in it- I don't care anymore.
I am done. I need to move but I can't.

Ralph opens the box and reaches into it.

I brace myself for the inevitable impact.

Ralph's hands reach towards me. He's holding a wad of cash and a bundle of cocaine packages.

The bastard thinks this is about money. He thinks it's about the drugs. He thinks I'm robbing him.

He knows who I am and he knows what he has done and he still thinks this is a robbery.

He thinks it's about anything except what he is.

This isn't about money .
I scream this at him- or I try to, but I have no voice left. I am done.

I slap the contraband out of his hands and start towards the stairs when I remember the lie I told Kathy. I reach down and gather a handful of twist-tied cocaine bundles and place them in my jeans pocket before I leave. I don't touch the money.

Without thinking, I walk downstairs, past the broken tripping boy and exit through the front door- the lost children are stirring a little bit, but no one is awake or alert, probably drugged or drunk.

Kathy is waiting outside in her blue Mustang, the headlights off. I walk around to the passenger's side and get in.

"You get it OK?" , she asks.

"Yeah, sorry I took so long...you know how it goes with this stuff..."

"So long? You were only in there for a couple minutes."

"Oh. It seemed like a long time."

When we get home she asks me again how the deal went. Was it OK?

"Of course it was OK- check this shit out. It's pure rock."

" You are lying to me."

"No, I'm not. Everything's cool."

"Then why do you have blood on your shoes?"

That was the last time I lied to Kathy.