Duncan's Diary (2 page)

I am, by no means, rich or even exude the appearance of being wealthy. In this country you need very little to vastly leap over the bounds of normalcy. I met Jessica at the house where I was staying. She was the local masseuse, and on that specific sun-filled day, a massage on the beach had seemed like the perfect afternoon treat. I spoke to her briefly as she stroked my legs, arms, and body. She effortlessly pushed on the soft cushiony appendages that were now the combined parts making up my 41-year-old middle-aged body. I asked her if she would like to go to dinner in-between the pokes and prods.

She agreed, and I picked her up at her parent’s house which was about a 30-minute drive out of the civilization known as Cabarete. She lived in the country dwellings that most locals trekked back to each day. She jumped in the car, and we made our way back to a tourist-styled dining establishment in the city. We both had a fat, juicy blood-rare steak and drank some tropical mixed drink designed to sweetly move you into a softened mental state. I convinced her it was time to head back to the house. She reluctantly agreed. We then made the awkwardly silent 10-minute drive and grabbed a beer from the fridge upon arrival. We sat out on the balcony listening to the waves rhythmically pound the shore in never-ending succession.

After a couple of drinks, I moved over to join her in her reclining lawn chair and started gently stroking her coarse jet-black hair. I kissed the sides of her cheeks and neck. She was surprisingly unresponsive and stoically stared out at the ocean as I clumsily fondled her perfectly hand-sized breasts and, then, moved over on top of her. She weighed at most 100 pounds and was all of 5’3”. Possibly from the daily routine of massaging over-aged men, she was extremely strong. A sudden shock of reality hit me when I felt the backhanded slap across my cheek. I waddled backward slightly and stared disbelievingly into her dark brown eyes.

She then cradled my face forcefully with both hands as she violently pulled my mouth to hers. She stuck her tongue out like an arrow driven into the inner recesses of my reluctantly accepting throat. I grabbed both her hands forcing her back against the chair and reciprocated the exchange in reverse. I explored the inner parts of her mouth with the abandon of a heat-seeking missile desperately looking for its target.

She violently grabbed my hair with both hands and yanked my head backward smacking me again this time with her left hand. She continued to control my head with her fingers that still had a firm grasp of my hair. My survival instincts took over, and my hands went instinctively around her neck. I began choking her and pushed her on her back. A devilish smile slowly crept over her face, and I realized she had provoked the reaction she wanted. I slapped her hard across the cheek, then backed off her and grabbed both of her legs. I twirled her over so she lay face down and yanked off her skin-tight pants smacking her repeatedly on the ass in the process.

At some point we moved to the bedroom, where we continued the sexually violent exchange for another two hours until we both lay spent and bruised. We were exhausted and face up on the bed—oddly a couple of feet apart. We did not intimately connect beyond the sexual encounter. Although I had a tumultuous history growing up, I had never physically hit or come close to striking a woman. I had never even contemplated hitting a girl, nor could I understand why a man would do such a thing. I had trouble understanding why anyone would inflict pain for pleasure on a physically weaker person, whether it was from a lack of self-control or other reasons.

The exchange I had just encountered was completely out of character and went against all my natural instincts. It set off flares and alarms that rocked my very being and warned me of the dangerous grounds onto which I had floundered. It was like the Hoover Dam, imposing and huge, but once the gates opened and the water rushed forth, it stayed the course until calmness returned. My only worry was wondering if the calmness would ever return.

I was confused and struggled to grasp what had just happened. Jessica got up and started talking in Spanish in a subdued tone. Even if I had known the language, it would have been difficult to understand her. She got dressed in a quick burst of energy and closed the door with a soft click of the latch. I was left alone to ponder the ramifications of my actions. I remember thinking I should be more prepared in the future. Sexual activity without a condom makes little sense today.

I spoke to Jessica a couple of times after I returned home to the United States; but after a while, my e-mails to her were not returned. I had not seen her on the island after our one encounter. I guess she had gone back to her daily activities, and from my little knowledge of her the sexual explosion could have been part of her standard routine. I, on the other hand, felt different. I felt changed in a way that I couldn’t understand. I fell back into the grind of deadlines and requirements that are a part of our hapless existence, but would remember this encounter forever.

A few months later I realized this was a key that had unlocked and opened an entirely new world I would navigate to like salmon swimming upstream. Life throws curveballs at times; and if you concentrate and are prepared, you might get lucky and hit one out of the park. You might also strike out—so be ready.

I sat in a non-descript seat in San Francisco Airport and looked up at the generic monitor that stated my flight to Boston was on time. God, I couldn’t believe I was flying to Boston again. I thought I would not be doing this for a while, but there I was. My name is Duncan. Yes, I have heard all the jokes: Duncan Hines, Dunkin’ Donuts, etc. The name was mine and seemed to fit my aimless personality.

As I sat there, I couldn’t help but think of the girl in airport security as I trudged through the maze of tape and temporary poles, herded like cattle one by one. Yes, here is my ID and boarding pass; yes, here it is again, and again, and again. She was a beautiful brunette with long, cascading hair walking three people ahead of me. She wore a pair of black leather shoes pointed to a severity, a sleek tight pair of black slacks, and what appeared to be a thin soft sweater underneath a white fitted sport coat.

She looked just like a young Jennifer Love Hewitt, I remember thinking as I saw her pass to another lane. We were both waiting in the same lines along with the other 200 people moving through security. I have always and probably will always have a thing for Jennifer Love Hewitt. I don’t agree with the current tabloids that call her fat. I think she is full-figured (large breasts), but in no way is she fat. I remember staring at her look-alike as she handed her identification to the obese security guard with a nice mustache. Since when should our protector look somewhat Asian and somewhat African-American, both? And I was not sure whether the security guard was actually a female or a male, but in San Francisco we don’t ask and, in reality, we don’t care.

As I made my way through the gate, I collected my keys, change, phone, XM radio, etc., in a massive buddle. I then put on my brown leather boots, thinking how athletic I must look while I managed to balance successfully on one leg while zipping up the side of my boot without even losing my footing.

As I walked into the non-descript airport bookstore I remember fretting about never again seeing the wonderful Jennifer Love Hewitt look-alike again. I looked for a non-fiction book to read so I could keep up my recent pretense of being sophisticated.

As I breezed through the books, my Jennifer (I was already possessive of her, which is a problem of mine) walked into the same store, picked up a newspaper, and headed for the check-out lady. She must have followed me in, I thought. She must have thought I was somebody she would have to meet. I should walk over to her, say hello, and see where the conversation went. Instead I again, as always, chose to stare, gawking like a perverted peeping Tom, thinking of what might have been as she checked out and walked away.

If chance would have it that she were also going to Boston and she were seated next to me on the same flight, then I would spark up a conversation; and we would live happily ever after. I was sure of that. Then again, lightning might strike me, as well. I stared up at the two-toned airport monitor again, which stated my flight to Boston was on time.

How had I managed to get here? I am 41 years old. Average build (five to 10 pounds overweight, perhaps). Short brown hair (mixed with some slight graying and some heavier gray on the sideburns). I am 5’ 11” or in reality 5’ 10” and a half (but that sounds pretentious to say), and in average shape. I am two months into a separation from my wife of 15 years. I have three daughters, who are age 14, 11, and 6. My favorite TV show is
Californication
. I have been having an affair for the last two years with my close friend’s wife, and I am getting a little worried that she wants to get serious. This prospect is a little more than frightening.

My father was mentally and physically abusive to me (and to my stepmother I found out later in life), and I do not speak to him much. I had basically cut my family out of my life seven years ago when my father went on his last rampage. He no longer hit me; but in a psychotic fit, he accused my stepmother of being a lesbian. He told her he would kill her if he ever saw her again. She, of course, stayed with him and received her beating, but he did not kill her. That was the end for me. I remember telling him at the time that he could either get help or he would never see me and his grandchildren again. He, of course, chose the latter.

I have worked in a corporate finance job at the same company for the last four years. My boss must have been born with a corn cob stuck so far up his ass he has not been able to get it out for 45 years. I am sure that he picks his nose on the way to work, flicking the remains on the floor mat.

All in all, I live what must look like the typical suburban broken family life, yet I feel there must be more. There must be some rush of excitement. There must be something out there in the world that would provide me with fulfillment. Anything I could look forward to and count on that would change me forever.

But, today, all I got was the attendant bellowing over the loudspeaker in broken English that our flight was now boarding. We could yet again get in another line and feed our broken lives onto a plane. We would, then, sit for hours where most of us would go to another city and stand in a line, waiting for our very existence to be extinguished like a simple fire that burns itself out at the end of a long cold day.

Is this what life is about? Sitting in lines just waiting for it to end? We move into endless lines until we lose track of who and what we are. I can’t help but think there must be something to bring the spark back into the lifeless, endless nothingness that had made up my 41 years.

I must interject that my world was not total misery. I did have three wonderful daughters who meant everything to me. They were smart, beautiful, and full of energy. My eldest was not speaking to me, since I had left our house. She was having a difficult time adjusting to the divorce. The middle one was simplistic and a little immature for her age, but this quality added to her innocence that I hoped she would never lose. My youngest was the sassy one. I was convinced she would give me the most trouble of the three. She would be tough to handle down the road with her blonde hair and California upbringing.

I also have a wonderful black lab named Delilah. We named her after the song “Hello, Delilah” that had been on the radio the night we picked her up from the breeder. Her fur was not just black, but a shiny black like the sheen on a car after it had just been waxed. She was a beautiful dog, a little over 1 year old and a great companion. I would later find out she also had the ability to eat anything, endless energy, and unbelievable enthusiasm.

As I approached my seat on the plane, I was excited to see that although I had a chair in the exit row, it was also the last seat in the exit aisle. This meant it most likely would still recline. I sat down, and sure enough. Not only did I have the extra spacious legroom, but I also still had a reclining seat. This made my day. I would have to work very hard to surpass this fantastic turn of events. My life really did suck.

I placed my computer bag and my overcoat in the overhead bin. My next order of business was to pull out the in-flight magazine and find the featured movie. The video on a six-hour, cross-country excursion can make for a quick or a long trip, depending on its quality. As I reached for the magazine, the attendant’s voice crackled through the speaker and told us herded cows that we should use the space under the chair in front of us as our primary storage. This always annoys me. I thought to myself, why should I do this? I check my bags. I don’t carry on three suitcases that weigh more than 100 pounds and expect to somehow jam them into the overhead compartment. Why don’t people ever check their luggage? I chose to ignore this direction and kept my computer bag and overcoat in the bin above my head. I am thoroughly convinced that airlines do not want us to check our bags. The more suitcases that are checked the more baggage handlers have to be hired. This means less money the airline executives can place into their overstuffed, protruding pockets. Everything in life is a racket.

Alvin and the Chipmunks
– what luck. I don’t mind kid movies, but
Alvin and the Chipmunks
? I may as well have shot myself right then. It was bad enough that this movie took away all my joy from my given seat with the extra legroom that still reclined. I would rather have removed my eye with a spoon than watch
Alvin and the Chipmunks
, but yet there it was. How people are allowed to make movies of this nature and then get paid for making them is beyond me.

I placed the self-promoting airline magazine into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me and picked up one of the three books I had purchased from the bookstore. The first was titled
Tips for Girls
. It was my middle daughter’s birthday in nine days, and this seemed like a very appropriate present. The other was about some Indian girl and her hopeless childhood. But it was a bestseller and, therefore, something I thought I should endure. The third book was something on our current political system that seemed appropriate for me to read.

I started with the Indian girl story, lasted about 40 pages until I could no longer keep my eyes open, and then feel asleep. The last 10 pages I spent doing the inevitable head bob. My head moved like one of those bobble-head dolls on the dashboard of a New York cab that rocks with every pothole. As I woke, we were now in the air and a good 30 minutes into our five-hour flight. I really wish I could have slept more. That damn attendant blared on the loudspeaker about the movie we were going to watch. I picked up my Indian girl book and took pleasure in a life that might be more depressing than my own.

I was distracted by the young couple sitting next to me. The man was in the middle seat, the woman was in the window seat, while I was in the aisle. My guess was they were in their 20’s. He had very short, cropped blonde hair and was slight in build. She was not big, but was not thin either. Still young, but the ass was blooming and would blow up nice and round after the first child popped out. She had slightly curly blonde hair with streaks of sandy brown. Her teeth were not perfectly aligned, but seemed to go with her middle-class face. I believe they were not used to flying much as they read the escape plan diagram from the seat pocket in front of them. Does anyone really look at this?

As soon as the seatbelt light turned off, she stepped across us both heading to the rest room. It seems odd to me that people instantly have to go to the rest room on planes once the seatbelt light goes off. It is almost like the opportunity presents itself so they suddenly have to take advantage of it. Has anyone ever heard of crossing their legs and holding the shit in? Strangely, I felt myself getting up, as well, and following her. It was as if I were in a cloudy vision and suddenly had lost control of my body.

As she entered the restroom and closed the door, I forced myself in behind her. I jammed my arm into the small enclosure, and it shut behind me easily and locked with a small flip of my fingers. She faced me with horrified eyes that were wide open. I could sense the scream welling up from her stomach, which would soon erupt. I grabbed her head with both of my hands and slammed her face into the mirror over the shrunken airline sink.

I crushed her head repeatedly over and over again as it hit the mirror. I felt her skull turn to mush as it caved in and flattened out like a piece of cardboard. The bones in her face rattled like a baby’s toy as I slammed it repeatedly and watched the blood squirt through the cracks in her face, covering my hands and body like a fountain. With the rush of excitement, my palms were sweaty, and my labored breathing erupted out of control.

She was now limp in my arms and her hips fell against me in the small enclosure. I felt myself growing excited with every push. I shoved her head into the wall and let her ass thrust back against my throbbing member as if we were making love. As the banging on the door began, I felt like I would erupt any minute. I heard a deep voice yelling, “Hey dude, are you okay?”

I laughed to myself, thinking I had never been more okay. I had never felt more alive than I did right now. I felt like my life had just begun. Like a baby as it takes its first step. I was just now feeling the potential of who and what I could be. The feeling of euphoria swept over me, yet the annoying voice continued without pause as I slammed my trophy one last time. I felt the moisture envelope me as my sweat mixed with the blood of my beautiful creature sagging lifelessly in my arms.

Again, I heard “Dude, buddy, are you okay? Wake up.” The shaking of my arm was involuntary as if somebody were grabbing me. My eyes felt weary as I pried them open with all my strength. I hazily saw the boy sitting next to me. His girlfriend stared over his shoulder. There was a flight attendant in the aisle, and I heard the guy on the seat opposite of me whisper to the lady next to him, “That guy is screwed up.” My mind slowly grasped that I was still sitting in my chair, soaking wet with sweat, and the guy next to me was asking me again if I were okay. I heard myself mumble that I was dreaming, and I shakily got up and went to the restroom. I splashed water on my face repeatedly, trying to bring the color back to my skin and slowly come back to reality. It had seemed so real. I couldn’t believe it was simply a dream. The feeling of ultimate bliss clung to me like a tattoo. I realized that I couldn’t continue living without experiencing something like this for real.

My life was soon to begin. I felt alive and nauseated at the same time as I violently threw up in the silver toilet, expunging my just eaten meal. The feeling of sickness swirling with the vibrant awareness was an odd mixture and difficult for me to balance. I slowly made my way back to my seat, as people stared at me from their cowering positions. I leaned back in my chair and relaxed. My breathing returned to normal, and I noticed that the couple next to me quietly kept their distance.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. Read, sleep, read, sleep, and, then, I watched the second movie
Enchanted –
a tolerable kids’ movie. The “fasten your seat belt light” dinged off, and I gathered my belongings from the overhead storage unit. I, yet again, waited in line, crammed in the aisle between seats that were shoved together. The airline industry’s only goal is increased profits versus any comfort for the patrons. An older lady in her 60’s looked over my shoulder with that “will you help me” glint in her eyes. You know the look—they can’t actually verbalize the request of asking for help with their bags, yet they sit and stare at you, then at the bag, then back at you again.