Duncan's Diary (5 page)

The inside of the room held a tiled floor with rubberized, washable walls. The tiled floor had a drain in the center that vented out to the back yard. The entire room was all bright white. Tile, walls, ceiling, everything was bright white. The room simply contained a metal-framed twin-sized bed with a rubber mattress, a metal side table, and a metal table like you would find in a veterinarian clinic used for examining dogs or smaller pets.

All in all, I felt very pleased with the finished product and all the possibilities it held. I took a boom box in the enclosure turned it up full blast with some rap song and firmly secured the door. As had been the case throughout the testing and building procedure, once the door was closed you could hear nothing at all from any part of the house. The final stage was now to paint the outside area to completely hide any remnants of the newly built studio. Nobody would ever know anything about this room, and it would be for me alone, save the few select people that I invited on special occasions.

In between my weekends working on the project and the added dimensions of the house, I spent my days at work and my evenings on Match.com. I went through a trial-and-error process where I sent out eloquent e-mails telling ladies how our profiles agreed. I talked about their desires and how we shared common interests. In total I had sent out 71 e-mails, and I had received zero responses. Each of my e-mail attempts varied slightly until finally my realization came upon receiving a few responses at one time in one week. Women simply wanted a direct invitation, no small talk.

They were desperate to begin with and had no desire to push out the process any longer than they had to. I should start my own dating site someday and call it “desperate woman over 35 who will do anything to get a date.” Okay, a little long in the title and redundant. I don’t think you have to say both “desperate” and “woman over 35.”

Once I realized this, I had three dates set up almost instantly, one on Friday night, one on a Sunday afternoon, and the last one on the following Thursday evening. Jill was going to be my first shot at seeing how my plan would progress.

I really needed to get some fashionable clothes that would afford me the luxury of dating a higher class of women. I had been married for 15 years and had fallen into the typical pattern of spending most of my money on my house, kids, wife, cars, and all of the typical crap that married men work so hard for that makes no sense. Buy a big house to have room to buy a bunch of shit that you will never use. Have a garage sale to get rid of all the shit to make room for more. My life was nothing more than a meaningless assembly line of factory-produced crap, but on a positive note, I was apparently efficient at it. I should put that on my business card: “Efficient Shit Producer.”

So I embarked on an adventure to the mall with my oldest daughter. Even without talking to me she was always up for a trip to wander aimlessly from rack to rack, perusing any form of bodily coverings that were marked up 400 percent. As with all teenage girls, she was up to the task of buying clothes on all occasions.

Jeans were the place to start. The question was: Lucky Jeans or Tommy Hilfiger? I had no idea what to buy or what was in style, but every single pair that my daughter picked out was a minimum of $100. Whatever happened to the $20 Levis? They looked as good to me as these designer jeans with makeshift holes and pre-made faded patterns, and I could buy five to one.

I ended up with a pair of Lucky Jeans, a pair of Hilfiger, and one pair of Calvin Klein. My main decision-making criterion was how athletic my ass looked in the mirror, and these three seemed to be my best bet. I did have a nice ass. The next item was shirts. Seems like the style is a black T-shirt under a dress shirt, but you really have to go with black-on-black of some pattern. I picked a few out, was politely reprimanded by my daughter, and she then went about picking out several choices for me. I spent about four hours in total going through items and trying on outfits. This is about four hours longer than I could tolerate in that environment. Again, typical of the suburban man, I didn’t enjoy shopping at all. I did end up with a variety of colors in the shirt area, although predominately black.

We couldn’t leave the mall without ensuring that my daughter was compensated for her fashion expertise. We ventured down to Nordstrom’s to look at jeans for her in the high-end denim section. Shortly, I realized that her jeans started at the $200 level, and worked their way up from there. What a great time to be in the denim business.

As we walked into the money-sucking pit designated as designer clothes, a middle-aged woman approached us and asked if we needed help. She had short black hair that was naturally curly, just short of being kinky. She dressed very fashionably in a pair of slacks and a pair of black leather shoes that most likely cost more than my entire outfit. She was probably around 5’4” and weighed perhaps 100 pounds. She had a smile that lights up a room. The smile always gets me. When a woman has a nice smile, it seems like everything else fades into the background. It is, in my opinion, the most expressive part of a woman. Give me a woman with a great smile, and I can overlook anything else. That always makes me wonder how I married my soon-to be ex-wife. Her smile was severe and painstakingly sharp. I always used to secretly joke to myself that her words came out so edgy because they had to work their way out of her taunt, stretched mouth that sharpened every syllable as it micro-pressed its way through the angled opening.

We began the process of my daughter trying on jeans. I ended up buying three pair, four shirts, T-shirts, and a belt all in the time it took my daughter to find one pair of a designer-labeled denim fashion statement. I can’t believe the process that a woman, young or old, goes through to find perfect-fitting clothes.

The good news is it allowed me time to get to know Sherene, the woman who helped us. She had two kids, was in the process of getting a divorce, and was looking for a place to live. Apparently, her husband’s family kept their house in trust to avoid losing it in just this situation. Good for them, but it sucked for her. Her husband was a member of the National FBI team that investigated serial killers. I thought at the time how ironic it was for us to share this oddly placed connection. He was gone most of the time on business trips, was very distant, and had grown into a sullen odd man. At least this was Sherene’s take. She had just gotten a day job at a venture capital company as an assistant and worked evenings and weekends at Nordstrom’s.

Sherene is one of the women you would marry on sight: fashionable, pretty, bright, and extremely personable. So I asked her out to dinner while my daughter was in the dressing room. She, unfortunately, stated that she was not dating at all during the divorce proceedings. She preferred to wait until it was final and spend time finding herself over the next few months. As a guy you are never sure if this is a nice way of getting blown-off or a legitimate statement. I chose to believe the latter and would periodically stop by Nordstrom’s to see if she was working to say hi.

After my shopping spree, I still had a few additional logistical issues to work out--how to get my new found date in my SUV, how to keep my SUV from being recognized, and how to transport her to Twain Harte. For my SUV I had a brilliant idea. In the parking lot of the mall, I simply slipped behind a car and removed its back license plate. I, then, removed its front license plate and placed it on the back. This meant that I now had a license plate with a current sticker, and the owner would most likely never notice his front plate being gone. I additionally removed the front plate from the car in the next slot. Even though they did not match, I now had two plates. This process cost me another $100. I had to ship my daughter off to do more shopping while I played musical chairs with the plates in the parking lot.

All of the preparation lasted until Friday, May 23 – my first date. My plan was to stop at a local gas station and switch from my casual business attire to my newly acquired chic stylish wear. I was nervous with anticipation throughout the day. My palms were sweaty, and I found it difficult to eat anything at lunch.

I had chosen a pair of Lucky Jeans (slightly faded and with pretend holes in several spots), a Claiborne textured, greenish shirt, a new set of black boots, a new black belt, and new black t-shirt and athletic briefs (which I commonly wear). Everything was new, trendy, and hip (although I am not supposed to say that, as “sick” is now the appropriate terminology). A far cry from my normal attire of Levi jeans (that my female coworkers swore were tapered even though they were not). It had been a long time since I had purchased modern-day wear, so this was a definite change from my normal everyday attire.

I left work around 5:30 p.m., stopped by the local drugstore, and purchased some chloroform which was simple and easy to attain. I now had my clothes, my car was prepped, black leather gloves in the glove compartment, and the means to render my date unconscious. My disguise was simple: very slight reddish dye through my hair and a slight prosthesis added to my nose, altering its shape minimally, but effectively. I inserted some teeth enhancers that altered my bite a small fraction but had the effect of adjusting my jaw line so my facial expression looked remarkably different. It is amazing how tiny adjustments can affect your look just enough to throw off how somebody will view you from memory.

I had been exchanging e-mails with Jill throughout the afternoon about the logistics of our meeting. She had suggested three places in Palo Alto, which were all close to her Menlo Park home. I picked a pub she had listed as one of my available choices. Her last e-mail to me left her phone number; and since I had failed to give her my name, she had also requested it not knowing what to call me when we met. She stated that she would prefer to know if I were going to be on time. She was uncomfortable waiting in a pub by herself. This was not something she was prone to do. I had sent her back a brief reply with my number and name: “Lewis.”

She was a perfect candidate. She was in her mid-30’s, had one daughter, and was slight in build. She ran frequently for the enjoyment of running, as well as keeping herself in shape. She was very conservative in her profile. She grew up in Palo Alto, but only recently had moved back. She had fair skin with a few freckles around her face and arms and looked a little uncomfortable smiling. Her hair was brown, but with a hint of reddishness throughout, and it was cropped about a couple of inches above her shoulders. She exuded a sense of uncertainty and self-consciousness about who she was and what she was looking for. She stated she was separated versus being divorced, but had not elaborated any further.

She reminded me of my stepsister, Sarah, from my father’s second marriage to Colene. Sarah afforded me the fond memory of being the first girl that I ever touched and the first girl who ever touched me. We had lived in a three-bedroom house in Johnson City, IL. Sarah and I had to share a room at the ripe time of our sexual awareness.

I can’t remember the first time that we started exploring each other. I do remember Sarah enjoying it even more than I did if that is at all possible. She had the budding of very small breasts forming and did not have her period at the time. Her arousal was still from curiosity more than anything. She was as pure and fresh as a girl her age could be. I was just entering puberty. I had the ability to get an erection, but really didn’t know what that meant. Like her, I was simply curious about the opposite sex.

We spent many nights with her coming over to my bed, touching and feeling while we were both naked. Never really doing anything other than learning what our bodies were like. There was never any penetration or ejaculation or anything sexual. We were just two young, curious kids getting to know each other and growing to the next level. Playing doctor would be the appropriate terminology used in prepubescent lingo, I believe.

I will always remember when I got hard for the first time with her touching me. She was so curious and excited. Her touch was soft and sensual, but again we were young and had no idea what this meant.

One day, my father came in and caught us both naked. After a long talk from her mother, our episodes stopped; and we fell back into the normal routine of being kids. Since my father was only married to Colene for less than two years, we moved on; and I did not have much contact with Sarah after that. I did find out she posed for
Hustler
magazine at one point in her life. She didn’t make the main spread, but she did open up to the world. I remember feeling sad that the innocent girl I knew and with whom I had explored my first beginnings had moved to magazine porn, but who am I to judge?

The self-conscious way that Jill carried herself reminded me of Sarah and my first experience seeing and touching the opposite sex.

After arriving in Palo Alto, I drove around for a while and finally decided to park in an underground garage close to my designated meeting point with Jill. I parked in a corner spot close enough to the stairs, not really knowing how the night would progress or how I would get her back to my car. I would have to remember to go by my Match.com name of Lewis versus my real name as the night moved forward.

It was in the mid- 90’s, and I was not used to the heat. It was still very light out, even though it was a little after 6 p.m. The heat showed no signs of letting up. My new clothes were rather heavy so I was worked up quite a sweat by the time I arrived, but I did look good. I think the nervous anticipation did not help. That and the temperature made for a long, hot stroll.

The pub was a small local Irish bar. A few stools were in the dark small room, and some tables were over in a corner. There was an even smaller outside sitting area, which was crowded—a very large party spilled inside the bar, as well. I ordered a Stella and looked around for Jill, standing over in one corner, drinking my beer, and watching the small TV hanging above the bottles in one corner.

Most of the group in the bar seemed to know each other. Not as locals would in a dive bar, but as a large group who just attended a wedding and were at an after-party. They were loud and boisterous, making sure that everyone heard them and knew of their presence. Not really a crowd strewn with cute women but more of the overweight variety that drank beer, enjoyed it, and didn’t care for offsetting this with any form of exercise. They must all be married women, I thought.

Jill finally called about 20 minutes after our agreed upon meeting time. She said she was sorry that she was late, but would be there in five minutes or less. I described the scene to her, and we both mutually agreed it might be easier walking down to Gordon Biersch and see what the crowd looked like there. Talking in the pub would be next to impossible. I told her I would meet her out front, and we could make the short walk together to our new destination.

Jill arrived in a black pair of tight shorts – something close to biking shorts, but without the extra padding in the ass. She had on a tight sleeveless shirt that was colorful and did not quite match the shorts. She wore a pair of tennis shoes with ankle socks, and as true to her picture her hair was brown, cropped short and had a hint of reddishness running through it. Her freckles were more predominant than I remembered from her photos, but all in all not a bad likeness. She would not win any beauty contests, but she was not ugly at all. Very fit, in fact, and she had a smile that would slice through steel. Not a “come here and talk to me” friendly smile, but more of an “I have been through a lot so don’t hurt me” smile. It would be interesting to get to know her and figure out what had happened in her life to make her first impression seem so bitter and sad.

We made the walk to our new bar and started the obligatory small talk that accompanies a first meeting. She informed me that she did not work and was currently beginning college courses. She was going back to school (her husband was going to pay for all of this), find a career, and start a new life. This got us down to the bar where we found a table and began the dating ritual of discovery.

Her husband was now a doctor. She had apparently put him through school, supported him while he was doing his residency, and just when he finally was ready to start his practice, he met a nurse. He screwed her and dumped Jill to the side as he started his new life. This definitely explained the bitterness part. This woman was going to be damaged far into eternity and well beyond this life.

This was the uplifting conversation that we began the evening with at the bar. We managed to get through a couple of drinks, and I suggested that we go find a place for dinner. I was hungry, and at least eating a nice meal would give me a distraction from Jill’s sadness.

It was growing dark, but was still in the between stage of night and day. The heat was lingering in the 90’s like the bad taste a spicy bean burrito might leave, but the setting sun added a peaceful calm to the evening. We walked up to University Street and made the turn to find a quiet restaurant to share some dinner and talk about our miserable lives.

We agreed on a little Italian place. I do love a good bowl of pasta, and I immediately ordered a mediocre bottle of red wine. Jill gently protested that she was not a drinker, but I didn’t think I could make it through a whole dinner without my senses being numbed. She was killing me, and in all honesty I was probably doing the same to her. I had to forcibly concentrate my conversation, keeping it centered on my kids, and my recent split from my wife whom I hated beyond all sensible reasonableness. Hate is a strong word, I know, but truthful, as sad as that is. I am not sure what happened to my wife along the way to turn her into the bitter nag of a woman she had become. I do know that when I finally decided to make the break it was one of the happiest days of my life.

My mind kept wandering to what I would be doing with Jill later in the evening and the pleasure she was being set up to provide. If she had known this was her last supper, would she have savored each bite a little longer? Chew each morsel slower to remember the sweet taste of normalcy.

Her grand offering to the conversation, beyond her own bitterness about being dumped, focused on her only child who was autistic. The challenges that she faced on her own as a single parent were immense. What a pair the two of us made that evening. I did manage to get out of her that she loved to run, had joined a running club, and up until a couple of weeks ago ran almost every day. The only thing stopping her was a pull in her right thigh muscle that was not allowing her to go full speed, so her running had become limited. She was hoping the injury was short lived, and she would soon be back to her routine.

Between dinner and our pathetic attempt at a conversation, the evening inched along. Finally, we found ourselves at the end of our meal. After paying the check, we started the stroll back to our cars. She had parked relatively close to the garage, but above ground, so we walked together. We arrived at her car first, and I asked her if she would mind driving me into the garage a few blocks away to my SUV. She reluctantly said okay, but it was easy to see that she did not want the evening continuing much further.

As we were driving, I eased my right hand into my front pants pocket and felt the rag I had doused with chloroform in its plastic bag. It was fairly simple sliding the Ziploc seal and removing the rag out of my pocket and holding it between the door and the seat. I was beginning to feel the nervous anticipation of actually making the next move. There was no going back now. A turning point in my life was very quickly approaching. It would be the end of who I was--my rebirth into somebody I did not know but was dying to explore.

There was a parking spot right next to mine, and she pulled in slowly. She was a careful person, a careful driver, and very reserved. As she inched forward I casually readied the rag in my right hand. She put her Volvo (ironic we both drove Volvos) into park as I scanned the surroundings, ensuring nobody was near.

I forcefully placed the rag over her mouth and nose. I used my left hand to hold down her upper torso by her neck. The move was precise and very quick. Unfortunately, I had underestimated her strength. As she fought back, she scratched my left cheek, flailing wildly with her arms in all directions. At one point, she hit the windshield wiper lever, starting them in a frantic motion. Our interaction of pushing and flailing went on for what seemed like hours, but in reality it was less than 30 seconds. It was still much too long for something of this nature. She slowly subdued and fell into a restless slumber. I, again, looked around to see if anyone had witnessed our interaction.

Unfortunately, there were three long fingernail scratches across my left cheek that would take a while to heal. Chloroform fumes were filling the car, and it was starting to smell. I would have to do something about the vehicle—my DNA and hair was everywhere. It seems as though it is getting harder in today’s society to have any fun doing anything. I also made a mental note that getting into shape would have to be a priority. I was now 41, and I would need to ensure that I had physical advantage over anyone that participated in my new game. It was one thing to look good, but I would need strength, as well.

I got out of the passenger seat of her car, opened the back seat of my SUV, and went around the back to pick her up. I slowly grabbed her under her shoulders by both arms and heaved her out of her car. I pulled her toward my open door. Her feet scraped the ground as I dragged her the few feet, and she lost one shoe in the process. I picked it up, placed it in the back of the SUV, and moved into the back seat. I tied her arms and legs quickly (I would have to stop later and do a more thorough job) and placed a piece of duct tape over her mouth. Isn’t it odd how useful duct tape is? If you are ever in doubt of what kind of tape to use, duct tape always works. I wonder who invented duct tape and if they still receive some kind of royalty every time it is sold? I doubt it. As with most things, the company the person worked for probably took full credit, made all the profits; and then when they went bankrupt, the individual found out the company had squandered his retirement plan. He is now most likely living on a park bench somewhere.

After securing Jill in the back seat, I casually placed a blanket on top of her, admiring again the freckles that pre-dominated her facial features. She seemed much more at peace now than at any time throughout the evening. Luckily, I had a lighter in the front mid-section of my SUV. Lucky seemed an odd term—if you looked into the tiny compartment that separated the two front bucket seats there seemed to be an assortment of odds and ends that would do a Boy Scout justice.

I tore a piece of blanket using my pocket knife (yes, I carry a pocket knife, which was a remnant of my military days) and placed the end of the long strip into the gas tank of Jill’s car. I lowered it into the hold as much as possible then lit one end. Once I was satisfied that it would, indeed, burn I got back into my car and started driving toward the exit. I paused long enough to hear the explosion as the car burst into flames and slowly pulled into traffic, making my way to the freeway. I stopped on a small side road to secure Jill slightly better (I also changed the license plates back to my own) and made my uneventful trip to Twain Harte – it would be Jill’s last home.

The entire process did not go well. It would be a miracle if I did not get caught. I would really have to plan the details better next time, as there were far too many loose ends that could expose me. I wasn’t going to worry about that now. I had my prize, and all I could think about was driving the three-plus hours and what fun awaited me at my destination.