David Alan Dedin
The Birth of the Monster
Twenty-One
The Birth of the Monster
1991
Halloween Night
Guinevere had intentionally chosen the busiest time of shift to stroll into the crowded Checker’s servers alley wearing a full-length fur.
“Holy crap, how much did that set you back?” Rob Vain asked, shocked. He was dressed as a sexy cop.
“Careful, Sweetie,” Cheryl Bennish said. “You’re gonna’ get ketchup on that lovely thing.” Cheryl was costumed as Columbia from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
“Err…isn’t that your mom’s coat?” Patrick asked loudly, trying to deflect attention from Gwen’s latest voiding indulgence. He was dressed like a cowboy. “Must be nice to live at home. To always have lots of cash…”
“You guys want to see my costume?” Gwen asked excitedly.
“Hell YES,” Marty said, dressed as a construction worker himself.
Sharon, in pumpkin, came out from the office in time for the big reveal. Gwen opened her chinchilla like a flasher’s trench coat, allowing the expensive garment to fall to the floor – gasp! The entire staff applauded her audacity, as well as the fact that she’d somehow gotten tonight’s blazer color right. Sharon’s gonna’ be pissed!
“Nice,” Sharon said coolly, coming up to face her doppelganger. She pretended to brush lint from Guinevere’s shoulders, but her demeanor walked the very fine line between being genuinely impressed and angry enough to hit Gwen in the face with an axe.
“Really…really…nice.”
“Holy shit, Gwen!” Alan approached her with a tray as the real Sharon walked away. He was dressed like the Village People’s biker tonight, with surprisingly accurate leather gear. “And here I thought there was no possible way my Schnookums could get any sexier.”
She fought back laughter – “In orange polyester?” Her palms ran slowly across her cheap woman’s blazer, pausing at the Montgomery Ward sale tag, which she’d intentionally left on – Reduced for Clearance. “Does my Schnookums want a little of this?”
“Well, he’d want to get you out of it as quickly as possible,” Alan said.
“And kiss me on the lips?”
“Not those lips.”
“Let’s keep it moving, people!” Rodney shouted from the expo window. “You all can go to your parties later on, but right now, we have food to run!”
Alan left for the dining room, while Guinevere – her coat nonchalantly dragged on the filthy floor behind her – strolled forward like a movie star, making eyes at the cooks.
“Damn, girl!” Cochise was impressed.
“How’d you know which blazer she’d be wearing tonight?” Big Tim asked suspiciously.
“Nice costume,” Rodney told her, “but if you’re not on the clock, get out of the kitchen.”
“But I’m waiting for Alan.”
“Then go wait in the bar.”
Hmph! Gwen vanished through the saloon doors.
“Cover me?” Patrick asked Alan, as the two rounded the dining room corner together. Alan lost his tray, then came up to the counter where the old Bobcat used to be. The Maximillian 5000 now sat in its place, a state of the art, top of the line, fully computerized register system. The Max had twice as many bytes & buttons as its predecessor, and it oversaw inventory down to every cold burger patty, leaf of unwashed lettuce, and ball of nicotine-colored phlegm, whenever a prep cook sneezed. It had also proven ridiculously easy to outsmart.
“I can’t believe how fast this is now!” Patrick removed his fake ticket from the printer. “It’s like, sinfully fast!
“It makes me want to cry,” Alan told him, feigning joyful tears.
“You guys going to Derek’s after work?” Kristen asked, filling Cokes. She was costumed as a very Material Girl. “That sounds like so much fun! I can’t wait to see what all you guys are like outside of work! Oh my god, it’s gonna’ be so…much…fun!”
“Riiiiight,” Alan said coolly.
“How much longer do you think it will be before Sharon cuts the openers?” Rob Vain asked, walking up to the Max to close out a ticket. He tugged at his Daisy-Dukes, while adjusting his gun and plastic billy club. His skin was the color of Grey Poupon. He’d clearly been tanning for weeks. “It’s like, dying fast out there.”
“Wait – the rush is over already?” Patrick seemed surprised.
“It’s Halloween, dude. Everyone’s got places to be.”
Alan glanced at his Tag Heuer watch. “Shouldn’t be much longer. I’m sure that Sharon will want to save on payroll.”
“Corner.” Eugene with an E made no effort to shout when he entered the alley. The cop, cowboy, and biker all looked up together as the bland new-hire – completely void of anything resembling a personality – lollygagged through the kitchen, with the urgency of a cow chewing cud. Like Alan’s leather, Eugene’s farmhand costume was also astoundingly accurate. It took him both hands to carefully tear the perforation on his ticket – “Order in the bowl.”
“Holy…mother of…Christ,” Alan said.
“You think that’s real shit on his boots?” Rob asked.
“THE FOLLOWING SECTIONS ARE CLOSED,” Sharon shouted, coming into the kitchen. “THE LOWER FIFTIES AND SIXTIES! THE UPPER TWENTIES AND THIRTIES!”
“Yes!” Rob Vain happily shook his fist.
“MAKE SURE YOU HAVE LAURIE AUDIT YOUR TICKETS BEFORE YOU LEAVE. AND GET YOUR SIDEWORK DONE NOW.”
Mia appeared, costumed as a mouse. She stood on her hind legs and sniffed the alley air, before scurrying into the dishwashing station.
Alan turned to Patrick. “Hey, I’m almost done. Gwen wants a lift to Derek’s party. Meet me there?”
“Yes, but” – Patrick seemed concerned all of the sudden. “If Gwen has no car, does that mean…?”
Alan nodded sadly –
“Bam-Bam’s like the clap. It takes stronger penicillin if you catch him a second time.”
* * * * *
CLAP!
“Young men…there’s no need for a frown” –
CLAP!
“If the rest-rant…gets burned to the ground” –
CLAP!
“Cuz cor-prate…will then rush to your town, be-cuz” –
“Ah-Ree-Nee…is…un-ha-pee” –
CLAP, CLAP, CLAP, CLAP, CLAP! –
“It’s-fun-to-work-in-the F-I-R-E! Let’s-all-jerk-off-in-the F-I-R-E…”
The construction worker, cop, indian, leatherman, and fireman – Marty, Rob Vain, Patrick, Alan, and Derek – all sang along to the blasting karaoke soundtrack, while attempting to use their bodies to spell letters. They weren’t even close of course, though Derek’s “E” – after seven back-to-back Jell-O shots – was a bit more accurate than the others’, albeit a tad obscene.
At least he wore clean underwear, Alan thought.
CLAP!
“You can get food for free, if you come-plane loud-lee…now, you folks just en-joy your meeeeeeeeaaaalllll…!”
Derek’s apartment was as big as a four-bedroom house, a rambling maze of cavern-sized rooms with ceilings so high, even Patrick needed a ladder to touch them. And the place was old, like a hundred-years-old old, constructed in the Beaux Art 1890s, when downtown Peoria was teeming with horse-drawn carriages, factories expelling smokestack soot, and dainty ladies clad in corsets stepping over horse shit in the streets. The flat had clearly been designed for a middle-class Victorian family, which provided the ideal backdrop for Derek’s collection of guitars, drums, colorful concert posters, and people.
CLAP!
“Young man – are you listening to me? I said, young man – there’s a roach in my tea! I said, young man – you must have to a-gree, so you’ve got – to, know, this, one, thing” –
It was also perfect for a party of tonight’s magnitude, as it seemed half the city was in attendance, the music crowd in particular. But there were also many restaurant employees in the crowd Alan noticed, and not just from Checker’s. As YMCA neared its finale on stage, Alan couldn’t help but smile when he saw Lucky and Lionel from Denny’s coming in through the front door together –
Lucky was carrying a six-pack of Schlitz.
CLAP!
“Young man, I was once in your shoes” –
“I said I was, really fighting the blues” –
“I felt no man, cared that I were alive” –
“I felt the world, would shrug should I die!”
“I’M GOING BACK TO DAN’S PLACE,” Guinevere shouted to Alan, while he was still on stage. He could see the muscular sperm-donor standing in the dancing crowd behind her– “Sup?” – and there was clearly no way for Alan to stop them from leaving together.
“I’LL CALL YOU TOMORROW,” Gwen shouted.
Alan’s heart sank as the two pushed their way towards the door.
“It’s-fun-to-work-in-the F-I-R-E! Let’s-all-jerk-off-in-the F-I-R-E…”
Something crashed in Derek’s guitar room down the apartment’s hallway, causing him to immediately jump off the stage – “WILL YOU PLEASE BE CAREFUL WITH MY STUFF!” The crowd, unaffected, finished off the chorus, and the Village People quickly disbanded and worked their way towards the kegs in the kitchen. Patrick pulled Alan aside –
“Hey – this was fun, but I have to get out of here!” Alan watched his friend pull off his headdress, revealing a scalp that was dripping with sweat. He coughed into his feathers. “There’s too much smoke. It’s worse than Lum’s.”
Alan nodded. The apartment had grown so full of grey haze, it looked like it was on fire.
“I’m going to the riverboat,” Patrick added. “Want to come with?”
“No,” Alan told him. “I’m going to stay for a while.”
“You okay if I leave?”
“Of course – go ahead. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“Ok – bye!”
Alan watched him leave.
Pushing his way through the oven of sweaty people, Alan found an open window, where he plopped on the sill and lit a cigarette. The cool night air felt good on his face, and as he looked at the street from three stories up, he could see Guinevere sitting on the hood of her car, her black hose and heels wrapped around Dan’s knees.
That’s a really bad idea, Schnookums…
A bottle shattered when a drunk slammed into the wall behind him. Something hit Alan’s boot, and he picked up the bottom of a broken tall boy of Bud. He set it on the sill, using it as an ashtray. The music blasted in the apartment behind him as he finished his cigarette, watching Gwen and Dan drive away in her car. He looked at his watch – It’s just barely ten o’clock. He thought about moving onto the club, but even on Halloween night, ten was still too early.
Returning his attention to the party’s revelers, Alan noticed a cute young guy admiring his leathers. Alan had forgotten what he’d looked like tonight. He had used the holiday to wear his chaps in public for the very first time, and as he sat in the window – the moonlight reflecting off the chrome in his leather jacket – he only now realized how intimidating he must have appeared.
And how right it finally felt.
Reaching for his whiskey, Alan remembered that he hadn’t any – something he had to remedy immediately. The house party charged forward as Alan pushed towards the kitchen where the liquor was. A few minutes later, he returned with a Styrofoam cup sloshing with Canadian Club. The cute kid was gone, but that didn’t matter anymore. He reclaimed his window spot and lit another cigarette after several deep, burning swallows of courage.
The music raged on while Alan waited for his cat’s eyes to change into lion’s.
Now that he was truly alone, there was someplace else that he wanted to be.
And someone else that he truly wanted to be…
* * * * *
“Hello?” –
“Is there anybody in there…?”
Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb oozed from the stereo as though it were liquid velvet. The police had been called an hour ago, and the party had been downsized from beer-fueled slam-dancing to drug-filled euphoria. Most of the people had moved on to nearby bars, while Derek – like many others – was now passed out on a sofa, a spilled water bong just below his hand.
The apartment looked like it had hosted a riot, with cups, empty bottles, and overflowing ashtrays everywhere…and candles that had burned so long, they were weeping waxen stalactites. The air was thick with African Violet incense. The clock was close to midnight. Lucky and Lionel – now joined by Big Tim, sipping a pint of brandy – were sitting in a cloud of smoke, playing cards at the dining room table with cooks from other restaurants.
Leaving the bathroom, Alan stepped over a couple who were making a baby of their own as he quietly exited the third-floor apartment, and headed down the stairs, then outside, to his truck.
Ten minutes later, he shut his engine on the street after finding no spots in the parking lot. Checking his appearance one last time in the mirror, he got out, locked his door, then headed towards the dance beat that thumped from The Club Peorian.
The bouncer stood outside tonight and held the door after taking Alan’s cover charge.
Alan paused before stepping over the threshold. From above, the club’s flickering neon sign looked down in vertical letters, buzzing above the sidewalk below in eerie bluish light.
Alan took a breath as the alcohol thrust him forward –
And then he was inside her.
* * * * *
James Whale’s Frankenstein flickered in black & white on the single dusty television, on a shelf above the bar. It was impossible to hear its audio, though. Not only was the interior wall-to-wall people tonight, a large space had been cleared in the middle of the dance floor to make room for the spectacle of the club’s infamous Halloween drag show.
“HOW YOU BITCHES DOIN’ TONIGHT? YOU GIRLS ALL HAVING A GOOD TIIIIIIIIIIME?”
Cheers erupted as Tiddy Mama took the stage, her sassy voice crackling in the speakers, which boomed throughout the bar’s entirety. Tiddy was a local legend. She was rumored to have lived in the projects, though her heels, gown, and wig looked as expensive as Guinevere’s coat. A fresh whiskey in hand, Alan pushed his way forward to see the performance. Tiddy was a cross between John Waters’ Divine and a black Phyllis Diller, only with much larger hair. She stroked her microphone as though bringing it to orgasm –
“YOU BITCHES READY TO GET NASTYYYYY?!”
Cocktails and cigarettes shot towards the ceiling when the crowd screamed in a deafening ROAR. Tiddy nodded to the DJ. The club fell dark as the music began. A single white spot now illuminated a yellow trenchcoat and hat, as a man dressed as Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy strolled into the dance floor’s center, smoking a Pall Mall. While the song’s intro played, the Dick was joined by a beautiful woman with an Adam’s apple –
“Some girls, they like candy…and others, they like to grind. I’ll settle for the back of your hand somewhere on my behind.”
Red dress sparkling like Jessica Rabbit, she vamped towards her Dick.
“Treat me like I’m a bad girl, even when I’m being good to you…I don’t want you to thank me…you can just spank me…”
WHOOSH – CRACK!
A second wild cheer exploded from the audience, as the Dick lost the trench to reveal an oiled muscular body, clad head to toe in full fetish leather. He tossed the yellow fedora right, while a black Master’s hat came spinning from the left. Whip in hand, the Leather Dom pulled the singer in close, affixing a leash to her velvet choker necklace. The crowd roared a third time when two leather subs – gorgeous boys wearing only black jockstraps – wheeled out a large Saint Andrew’s Cross, with open leather restraints already affixed to the wood.
Finishing his whiskey, Alan felt his dick move.
“…Don’t take out your handkerchiefs…I don’t want to cry…”
Pushing his way back towards the main bar, Alan noticed the club’s leatherman – a group of almost twenty guys of various shapes, sizes, and roles – standing along the main room’s far wall, where they often gathered on weekends. It was a well-known fact that Peoria had its leather scene, but unlike Chicago’s Touché, AA Meat Market, and Eagle, the Club’s local kinksters were far more discreet, and rarely revealed themselves in the open. But nights like this were the exception, as the clandestine brotherhood felt safe to gather in public.
As the bartender took his money Alan quickly looked away from the group, but he did so too slowly which caught one of their attention, and once you go black…
WHOOSH – CRACK!
Alan’s eyes turned towards the dance floor, knowing he could never, ever go back –
And the crowd went wild.
* * * * *
“Well, let me sing…you…the devil’s song…I want to sing…you…the devil’s song!”
Later, as Frankenstein continued on the late show, the whiskey was rapidly overtaking his inhibitions, as Alan watched the leathermen watch him – while he pretended to watch the drag show. Hanky Panky had been followed by Sooner or Later, which itself had been followed by Come On Eileen – and a shocking, yet creative, misuse of silly-string. Alan’s back felt hot as it pressed against the vinyl bar stool, his body turned away from the men in black, while his eyes watched their movements in the mirror behind the counter.
They moved closer slowly, carefully, as though they could read his mind.
Three empty shot glasses sat on the bar in front of him. Pulling out a five, he motioned for another. The bartender hesitated but poured him a forth anyway.
“…Diaboli, Diabolo…Diaboli, Diabolo…”
The amazing Tess Tickles was now on the stage, staggering drunk. She slutted her way around the crowd’s perimeter, attempting to lip-synch to Big Pig’s Devil’s Song, which she failed completely.
The crowd groaned loudly when an electric lift was rolled onto the floor, for the finale. “…Diaboli, Diabolo…Diaboli, Diabolo…”
Tess’s intention was obvious. She would use the lift at the song’s very end, symbolizing her demon’s rise from the pits of hell into the joyous harps of heaven. But too many vodkas had gotten in her way, and when she stumbled into the lift’s passenger car, she accidentally bumped the speed lever, sending her rocketing to the ceiling – SLAM!
Gasp!
Luckily, as the audience watched in horror, Tess had the ware withal to pull the lever back, slamming her downward just as quickly – SLAM!
Gasp!
Once the dust settled, all eyes looked up to Tess’s wig, in the rafters. It had gotten caught on one of the strobe lights, and now dangled from the ceiling, like a mobile. Feeling embarrassed, she tried to make the best of things, but when Tess attempted to gracefully step off the lift, her eyes went white and she passed out cold on the dance floor – SLAM!
Silence.
Ever the fickle critics, the crowd now APPLAUDED the best act in the show.
* * * * *
An ambulance was called.
Tiddy decided to wrap things up early.
Alan slammed his shot, then ordered two more when the first bartender ran cold towels to the dance floor. A ten-spot ensured that the barback removed his empties before that particular bartender returned to his post.
The DJ brought the house lights up briefly, while the crowd made a path for arriving paramedics and police. The club thinned out a bit, but as the night was still young by 4am liquor license standards, the die-hard clubbers waited for the mess to get cleared, and then filed onto the dance floor when the music resumed. By the time it did, red and blue lights could still be seen flashing in the bar’s front windows.
Taking his final shot with him, Alan walked towards the dance floor, himself.
The leathermen followed.
Easing back into the proper mood, the DJ had chosen one of everyone’s favorite mixes. The bartender came around from the counter, then started wiping chairs and pushing them back into place. He nodded to Stephen who was sitting in his usual spot, gingerly smoking a long Virginia Slim while watching the end of Frankenstein on television.
The monster had come to life.
* * * * *
“This old life seemed much too long, with little point in going on” –
“I couldn’t think of what to say, words just vanished in the haze...”
His eyes now blurring in and out of focus, Alan leaned against the wall in an effort to remain upright. He had clearly had way too much to drink tonight, and he was starting to wonder if it was wise to drive home.
I’ll stay here awhile, he thought, placing his shot on the nearby drink ledge.
Maybe have a few glasses of water, shake it off…
The Thompson Twins song – a remix of Lay Your Hands on Me – pummeled from the speakers, in time with the big room’s vibrant lights and spinning disco balls. As more and more people paired up and joined the dance floor, Alan struggled to light a cigarette with matches, but his shaking hands were all but useless, and he couldn’t hold either steady.
“I was feeling cold and tired, yeah kinda sad and uninspired…”
A lighter flashed white at his side.
Alan turned to find one of the leathermen standing next to him, helping him light his smoke. Taking a deep drag, he went to thank him, only to find that the man in gear had vanished from his side, and now stood in the dance floor’s center, surrounded by a circle of boys in black – as other dancers stepped aside.
“But when it almost seemed too much, I see your face and sense the grace, and feel the magic in your touch…”
The boys all clapped at once – CLAP! – then twirled on the tips of their boots, coming to rest on one knee, with their other leg outstretched – CLAP! – their eyes all locked on Alan, himself.
They waited for his response.
The uniformed man in the center adjusted his hat, pulled his gloves tight, then beckoned for Alan to approach. Downing the last shot and slamming the empty glass on the drink ledge, Alan ran directly towards them, and leaped into the leatherman’s arms –
“Lay your hands! Lay your hands on me!”
“Lay your hands! Lay your hands on me!
As the ceiling’s rainbow spotlights blurred into gauze-filtered stars, the boys all came together at once and hoisted Alan into the air, like Baby from Dirty Dancing. He lay on their palms with his arms outstretched one ankle higher than the other, while the mirrored ball’s lights – a million dots of white – reflected in his leather jacket, chaps, and boots above the now-empty dance floor. An unseen camera circled around his euphoria, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as though escaping into his head –
CLAP! – “Lay your hands!” –
He came down soft into the wise old leatherman’s arms –
CLAP! –“Lay your hands on me!” –
The uniformed man brought his gloved hand to Alan’s cheek, his bearded lips coming close to Alan’s ear, tenderly –
RAP! –“Lay your hands!” –
The red and blue lights of police could be seen beyond the black and white television, through the Club’s windows as he spoke –
RAP! –“Lay your hands on me!” –
“Sir?” he whispered to Alan –
RAP!
“Sir?” he said a little louder –
RAP! RAP! RAP!
* * * * *
“SIR!” the policeman yelled, loudly rapping his baton on Alan’s window.
“I NEED YOU TO PUT THE VEHICLE IN PARK…NOW!”
Alan woke with a gasp. He was sitting in his idling truck, at an intersection on the way home. He had passed out at a stoplight with the vehicle still in Drive. Red and blue lights flashed in his rear-view mirror, as the cabin of his truck was now illuminated by cruiser’s headlights, one directly behind him, and the second at his side.
“SIR, CAN YOU HEAR ME? PARK…YOUR VEHICLE…NOW.”
Alan did as he was told.
“SHUT YOUR ENGINE, PLACE YOUR KEYS ON THE PASSENGER SEAT, AND LAY YOUR HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL.”
He could see several uniformed men approaching in his driver’s side mirror, silhouetted in blinding white. Like the man that he’d been dancing with in a dream, they also had handcuffs on their leather belts.
* * * * *
Rap, rap, rap!
Sharon looked up when Rodney knocked on the open door to the manager’s office, gesturing towards the telephone’s single glowing line – “Stan Arini is on the phone.”
“Really?” She glanced at the time.
“He wants to talk to you. He says it’s important.”
Sharon sighed. “A call from corporate at this time of night – that’s the fuckin’ perfect way to end Halloween.”
“I was on my way out, but do you want me to stay?” Rodney asked.
“No. I’ll lock up.”
“All right. I’m going to leave through the front, then.”
“Goodnight, Rodney.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Sigh…
Bracing herself, Sharon took her boss’s call – “This is Sharon.”
“You’re there late,” Arini said from his Dallas desk, a fresh cup of coffee steaming next to his computer. “I hope that’s because you’re making sure those hoods are clean!”
Sharon winced – “You know me well.”
“That’s my girl!”
“Why the late call, Mr. Arini? I’m literally on my way out the door.”
“Well, I’m glad I caught you then, because this is important.” Arini pulled his keyboard closer, carefully moving the mouse. The computer’s screen reflected in his glasses. It displayed columns of numbers from Peoria’s new Maximillian system. He clicked on the profit/loss drop-down menu.
“Sharon, I’m looking at your numbers now…and I’m still concerned that your food costs aren’t where they should be.”
“I’ve initiated all your suggestions, Mr. Arini. That’s why I’m here so late.”
“Well” – Arini chuckled – “I wouldn’t call them suggestions.”
“I’m sorry,” Sharon backtracked. “What I meant to say was” –
“Sharon, it’s late and I’m tired here as well, so I’m going to be blunt” –
“I think that your servers are stealing from you…”
* * * * *
Tugging on his jacket, Rodney came into the lobby from the empty dining room. He rolled his eyes on noticing the Sharon was still on the phone – That’s why you make the big bucks, bitch – then jingled his keys while heading for the front door. But he stopped when he heard voices in the bar –“As I said before, I say again. Here’s to the son of the House of Frankenstein.”
“Shit,” Rodney muttered, noticing that someone had left the big screen on. Shaking his head, he walked through the lobby’s saloon doors, then ducked behind the bar, where the remote was kept by the new Max. He poured himself a quick shot of Jager before shutting the TV, just as the credits started rolling. He paused to toast the glowing phone line before downing it, replacing the glass with the clean ones.
“Here’s to you, Mr. Arini…and whatever the hell is so damn important that you’re calling at two in the morning.”
At that very same moment, on the other side of the city, Patrick’s cell phone rang in the dead of night. The call was collect…
END OF ACT TWO