I am haunted by the sound of wheezing.
“Steve, I wish you were fucking me right now. So bad.” Michelle’s voice trailed off to the sound of the swirling static air surrounding the constant scratch in her throat.
I sat on the toilet, staring at the light blue linoleum tile, patches of mildew covering the grout, listening to the thirteenth voicemail from the night before. My hand clenched the phone so hard sweat stuck it to my ear.
“Is that how you like it?” A man’s muffled voice pierced through her raspy breaths.
Her rhythmic wheezing continued to the beat of a metronome. In, out. In, out.
I met Michelle two weeks after we set up our operation.
Conor, Orion and I had just rented a whole floor of an abandoned warehouse we found out about on Craigslist. Our plan was to blow it up. Fill the 968-square-foot area with lights and plants.
All it took from me was $25,000 to get started. That was no problem. I had been in the business for eleven years already.
Since it was legal, and I didn’t have to worry as much, I was in.
Even though the local cops were off my ass, I still had to worry about the feds. The feds always went after the big guys. So I did my best to blend into my neighborhood.
Talk to the neighbors when I saw them. It’s a fine line; if I talk to them too much I have people stopping over all the time.
Never leave my garage door open. That’s an open invitation to neighbors.
Have a job, anything normal, to look productive and busy. Delivering pizzas was all I knew. I usually worked the day shift and was off by five p.m.
The neighborhood was like any other middle-class suburb: cookie-cutter houses set apart only by color schemes, lawns perfectly manicured and sprayed with the newest breakthrough in chemical fertilizers, and children drawing pictures with chalk on the tar driveway, maybe a game of street hockey blocking the road as I made my way home from work.
Someone on the block was usually outside to greet me whenever I pulled in the driveway. Sometimes I pretended like I didn’t see anyone outside so I wouldn’t have the same superficial conversation I had every other day of the week. Once I made eye contact, I had to talk.
I usually pulled in the attached garage and shut the door behind me.
When I got home I had a ritual.
Let out my English Bulldog, Roscoe, and throw the ball in the backyard for him to fetch. The lack of a tail made his body wiggle when I came home from work. I usually stood there smiling, watching him run, roll, and jiggle his body around the house as fast as he could.
Grab a glass of water. My throat got stale when I was online.
Give Roscoe his Nylabone.
Log on to AOL.
“Welcome. You’ve got mail,” the unknown man’s voice screamed. The volume on the speakers was always too loud. I always had mail. I always will have mail. Did I need a reminder?
My name was Cerealkiller.
Find a chat. I clicked on the hyperlink and narrowed my search.
Minneapolis 1. I had to stay local. The room was always full of all sorts: men impersonating women, 12-year-olds pretending to be 17, older men preying on teens, men looking for sex, girls sending pictures of Britney Spears, insisting it’s them, and chat room surfers.
I usually just scanned the profiles. Skipped the chatting.
I wanted one thing: sex.
I never had a relationship last longer than a couple months. It usually ended with her saying, “I think we make better friends than anything else.” No one ever told me why we were breaking up. I just knew it was over.
I was different from all the other guys searching for sex who had server admin on Counter Strike, who drank diet soda all day and ate Kentucky Fried Chicken Buffet for lunch. Their egos could get run over by a gerbil in a running ball.
I had a life. A future. I was thinking about college. Doing what I did couldn’t last forever. I needed a way out, and I knew it. I was stuck to not making close relationships with women. I couldn’t let them get too close to me. It was a risk. I couldn’t expose myself. But fuck, I was only human.
What woman looking for sex wouldn’t want me? I was 24, rock hard body, and intelligent. People who knew me would I say I was kind. The problem was not letting the gerbil run me over, too.
A woman’s profile had all the clues:
Relationship: Completely open
Hobbies: Men, fun, skinny dipping, sex
Nickname: (Insert any name)69.
It was all very easy.
Being selective wasn’t part of the process. Personality? What does that even mean? Looks meant as much my screen name. Chemistry meant nothing.
An instant message popped on my screen in the upper left corner. My heart skipped. A drip from my armpit ran down my side.
Shell3569: Love the name.
I was shocked. An instant message to a guy who said nothing in the chat room was rare. Usually someone would post the usual 22/m/athletic/pics/tan/blue eyes to let everyone know, here I am. Here I am.
69 at the end of the name, interesting. I clicked on her profile.
No profile available.
Cerealkiller: Thanks. Age/loc?
Shell3569: 36/Burnsville/pic/single u?
She even included single, usually a good sign.
Cerealkiller: 24/Richfield/single. Can I see ur pic?
Shell3569: sure Brb
My hands trembled on the mouse. My toes curled under, and the sole of my foot instantly cramped. My toes had to stretch out to relieve the pain.
Shell3569: sent
The mouse pointer went to the mailbox, clicked on the email, and opened the attachment.
Nice, a lot of skin, and a dark v-shaped patch in the center of the picture. Very nice. Too bad I couldn’t see her face. Beads of sweat streamed down the side of my ribs.
Cerealkiller: nice pic. do you have any of ur face?
Shell3569: thanks. brb.
I squeezed the mouse to keep the pointer still on the screen, staring at the background of the royal blue desktop, lost in the pixels. My shirt clenched my wet back.
Her picture opened.
The slight curl in her brown hair danced on her shoulders. Her blue eyes reflected the sun and sparkled. The blue v-neck dress showed off her thin frame and slight cleavage. The graininess of a scanned picture gave it some texture, some life. Everything about the picture was a haze except for those crystal blue eyes.
Cerealkiller: very nice. wow, nice pics.
Shell3569: thanks. pic?
Cerealkiller: no. sorry. 6’2 180 brown blue athletic tan.
I didn’t have to lie. My German roots gave me an olive complexion.
Shell3569: nice. let’s just skip the talk. what r u looking for?
My body tingled, knowing where this was going. My hand unbuttoned my pants.
Cerealkiller: not sure. u?
Playing the passive role I thought seemed right. It seemed to work every other time online. Put it on her. I usually played this game but it never amounted to anything. That’s all it was, a game.
Shell3569: some fun.
The pause in the conversation made me have to take a piss.
Cerealkiller: brb.
My weak legs barely made it to the bathroom. My hands twitched and body trembled, my hand barely able to grab my zipper and unbutton my pants. One little stream was all I could muster. I had to get back. See where this would go.
Cerealkiller: k. back
Shell: so?
Cerealkiller: that’d be cool.
Shell: Call me. 832-4289.
My phone came out of my pocket and dialed the numbers.
I didn’t hear the phone ring.
“Hello?” Her raspy voice sounded like tires trying to screech on a gravel road.
“Shell?” I didn’t even know her name.
“Michelle. So what’re you doing right now?” She said it so fast I could barely understand it; a soft wheeze came from her throat.
“Not much,” I said.
“Wanna come pick me up? I’ll suck your dick.”
The phone banged against my ear. Sweat dripped from my chin.
“Seriously?” My lips quivered, trying to speak correctly.
“Yeah. Come pick me up. You know the Walmart on Country Road 42?”
“Yeah.” My teeth chattered and echoed through the phone. I started to stroke myself.
“Meet me there in twenty minutes. You live close. What do ya think?”
I put my hand in my pants. “Sure. Twenty minutes. Walmart.”
“I’ll be right out front. You better be there.”
“I’ll be there.”
The last thing she said echoed in my mind the entire way there. You better be there. You better be there. You better be there. This was definitely a first for me.
It usually went like this when online dating:
First you see her picture and see what she’s into.
Next you mention kissing. Kissing always wins a woman over.
If you have her here, you then say, “How do you feel about meeting?” Always be passive. She’ll usually buy into it if you are aggressive but not too
hard.
Once you meet, you have to order a drink. If you order a drink first, she is bound to next. Loosen her up just a tad.
Then, when the conversation starts flowing, you interrupt her mid-sentence, reach over, and kiss her. Tempt her with your tongue.
How she responds to your tongue determines the rest of the night.
Either you are going home in less than an hour, or you invite her out to your car.
The Walmart sign hypnotized me. I pulled into the back of the parking lot and found an open spot between a few cars. My window rolled down. My hands shook hard enough where I said out loud, “Fuck. Calm down.” I had to focus all my energy onto stopping them. My leg then started in. I squeezed the steering wheel as hard as I could. My arms shook the motor mounts on my rusty Corsica. I yanked the shifter and put it in reverse.
“Fuck this. I can’t do it,” I said to the speedometer.
“Yes I can,” I said to myself confidently.
I knew it was her as soon as I pulled around the handicap Ford Taurus at the front of Walmart. The grainy photo of Michelle showed little resemblance to the woman standing with her wrinkled, bruised arm gripping the pole of the stop sign. The eagle claws at the corners of her eyes and the loose skin of her cheeks made her look closer to fifty; her thick neck hung low from the extra weight she’d gained since the picture online. Her bra tried as hard as it could to hold up her tits. Her dry, ratty hair couldn’t sit still in the wind. By the look of her, Michelle had a rough life.
I took a deep breath and just about turned down the next aisle of the parking lot until we made eye contact.
“Fuck.”
I was stuck.
I drove up to the stop sign. Moms with their kids spilled out of the automatic doors, smiles everywhere. I rolled down the window.
“Michelle?” The confidence switch turned on and demanded her into my car.
She opened the door and lowered herself into the passenger seat. I brushed the crumpled delivery receipts onto the floor.
“Hey.” Her eyes locked onto mine, and her hands went right to the inside of my thigh.
“Wait. Let’s go get a drink somewhere,” I somehow said.
“Sure. Where? Damn, you’re hot.”
“Cue Sharks. Pool hall up the road. Thanks. You are too.” She wasn’t but I had to say something.
“Thanks. Sounds good to me. Go.” Her crooked teeth peeked out from behind her lips.
A bright maroon C, S and K lit up the four cars in the front row. Cue Sharks occupied part of an abandoned strip mall, the blue paint peeling off the wood siding. The U and E of the sign was taken over by a bird’s nest. The H was shattered. The rest of the letters were burned out.
Michelle grabbed my hand and clenched my index finger, slowly moving up and down. I held open the door, at least checking out to see if she had an ass. The lumps of extra fat tried to squeeze out of her faded black jeans, stitching coming undone at the seams. Our eyes met. Michelle stuck my finger in her mouth, her tongue circling it. I yanked it out of her mouth fast enough where the sound of her teeth trying to smash my finger echoed in the doorway.
“You’re feeling kinda feisty.”
It was only 9:15 p.m., and the pool tables were empty. The yellow-stained ceiling tiles and musty matted carpet made the place smell like a twenty-year-old trailer home. A couple holding each other smiled into each other’s eyes with wandering hands as they bounced against the railing of the pool table. Two construction workers who sat at the bar in cutoff neon green t-shirts, skin bright brown, gave Michelle the once over. She reflected their smile and put her arm around my shoulder.
“Two Summits, please.” My hands calmly pointed to the tap, “Summit cool?”
“Yeah. I drink all beer. I’ll drink anything.” Her cracked lips from years of Carmex and scars from old cold sores somehow made my testicles flutter. “I’ll be back.” She gave my finger a tug and bit her crusty lip. The wrinkles around her eyes and waxed eyebrows distracted me.
Michelle had her own way of flirting.
The jealous bartender watched her ass until he noticed me looking at him. I turned my head towards the beer about to overflow.
“Watch that there.” I pointed to the white creamy head about to ooze over the rim of the glass.
My ears instantly perked up when I heard the blown speakers overhead trying to play the dreaded piano chords. It was the opening to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin.’”
The song had haunted me for years. There were many nights I heard it as a kid, and there was one rule: Stay in my room. My mom always told me, “Stephen, honey, if you hear this song, don’t bother us. Stay in your room.”
One night will always stick with me.
I shot up in bed to the sound of broken glass and the familiar E, B, and C major chords. I tiptoed to the door and wrapped my fingers around the doorknob, making sure not to disturb my parents.
I looked back to my brown and black Pound Puppy for help. It was buried under my covers.
I twisted the doorknob and peeked out the door. Stale cigarette smoke forced its way into my room. The haze of smoke swirled and danced around my parents and two strangers rolling around on the burnt orange shag carpet. Neal Schon’s guitar solo screamed through the silver Kenwood receiver and blown Pioneer wood cabinet speakers. Four cigarettes lay propped up in the ashtray still burning, adding more to the haze of smoke. The broken vase and bouquet of flowers were strewn across the carpet, their bodies squirming, carefully not touching the shards of glass. None of them looked at me or noticed I was there. I stood there and watched for what seemed like hours. The song faded out, and I noticed my dad was about to turn around. I tucked my head back in my room. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
I came out of my reverie staring at an ad for Hairball. Conor was a big fan of 80’s hair metal bands. He would be excited to know they were coming soon.
I flung my arm across the bar and knocked over Michelle’s beer. The combination of the glass shattering and the piano chords made my eyelids twitch.
Whenever my eyes start twitching, it’s hard for me to focus. The more I focus, the more my eyes twitch. The music echoed from far away and blared in my ear at the same time. My eyes fluttered faster than ever. I rubbed my eyes.
“Shit. Sorry. Can I get another one?” I could barely speak the words.
“Yeah. I’ll bring it to ya.” The bartender didn’t look at me as he said it.
On the way back from the bathroom, Michelle intercepted me, her hand gripped my leg and forced me into a seat.
I took a shot at normal conversation trying to distract myself, doing my best not to make eye contact. “So, what do you do?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“Cool. What do you shoot?” I took a sip of my beer and turned in my seat to get her hand off me.
“You know Gary Ridgeway? Green River Killer? That was my first case.” Her pupils locked on mine.
The glass paused on my lips and beer balanced in the mug.
“I photograph murder scenes.” Her calm, steady tone forced me to look the other way.
The beer clung with all its strength to the mug, trying desperately not to fall in my mouth.
“Look,” she said. “I’m really not here to talk. Let’s just do this. I scoped it out. No one’s in there. Take me in the women’s bathroom and fuck me.” She grabbed my hand, expecting me to join her.
My legs tingled and gut turned. I felt pressure on my pants zipper.
My phone in my pocket vibrated and made my leg jump.
I grabbed it and held it up to her, making sure to smile to show interest.
Conor’s name was on the caller ID.
“Sorry. I have to get this.” It was one of those moments where I had to stop.
The lyrics screamed that part about a midnight train going anywhere.
“What’s up Steven. Steven. Steve?”
I couldn’t see anything. My vision went blank. I tried to focus.
“Steven!” he screamed.
I didn’t know it but my eyes locked with Michelle’s while she smiled, showing her front teeth crisscrossing each other.
“Yeah, hey man.” I was snapped out of my stare.
“We should really get together soon.”
“When are ya thinking? Everything cool?” I tried to not look at her. The guitar solo hit full stride. Michelle slid her stool next to mine.
“Yeah. Fine. We just need to grab some lunch.”
The key phrase: grab some lunch. Something was wrong.
Michelle pinched the inside of my thigh and I slapped her hand away. I felt the bruise taking shape immediately.
“Ok. Cool. Hey let me call you back in a bit. I’m kinda busy right now.”
The pain in my leg made everything else disappear.
“Nah, that’s cool. You don’t need to call right back. We just need to sit down and talk.” Conor’s teeth chattered through the phone.
“Alright. I’ll call you soon. Later, man.”
That was it.
Perfect timing.
I had to leave.
“Later,” Conor started to say before the call was cut off.
Michelle leaned into me and wheezed, “Right now. Bang me in the bathroom stall. Pull my hair. I want the whole fucking place to hear us.” Her wheezing took over at this point. I could barely understand her.
Fuck. Again?
The Journey song went on about people living to find emotion. People hiding in the night.
One of the construction workers smirked at me.
“I have to go. Buddy of mine needs help. Unfortunately, right now. I’ll drop you back off at Walmart.” The words tripped and fell out of my mouth.
“Really?” Michelle rolled her eyes and sighed. “Take me to Champs, then. I’m not done with you yet.” The confidence in her voice made me scared to walk out the door with her.
Later that night I heard my phone vibrating on the hardcover book next to my bed.
I picked it up and squinted at the caller ID: Michelle’s number.
Fuck.
My clock read 1:11, five voicemails and six missed calls.
I dropped my phone on the carpet, hoping I wouldn’t hear it if I put one ear on the pillow. Instead I heard her every breath. The vibrating phone wheezed louder and louder. The sound was right next to my ear.
“Fuckin’ A,” I shot up and screamed.
I grabbed the phone, hit the power button, and threw it into a pile of dirty clothes at the end of the bed.
The wheezing was gone.
I exhaled.
The clock read 1:15.
9:28. Stars of the Lid’s “Piano Aquieu” started; the soothing tones usually slowly brought me to reality. I was tense. My legs tingled and locked, only my knees bent. I crawled to my phone, turned it on, and waited.
I walked to the bathroom while the Verizon logo paused on the screen. The welcome screen flashed black, and the familiar picture of my bulldog appeared.
16 voicemails.
My hand trembled and fingers jittered, barely able to hold down the number one for the two seconds needed to reach voicemail. I just wanted to let the voicemails disappear, not listen to them.
Cell phones force you to listen.
I entered my password, the longest it ever took me to push four digits.
“Uh, goddamn Steve. I wish you would’ve stayed with me.” I could barely understand her because of the buzz in the back of her throat.
Suddenly I remembered being back in my car the night before with Michelle in the passenger seat.
“Fuck me in the back seat. Right now.” She brought her head up from my lap, a pubic hair caught between her teeth. The lights from the neon Champs sign tinted her a lucid red. Her hair. Her skin. Her eyes. Everything. Red.
“I can’t. I have to help a friend pack. He’s moving tomorrow. That’s who called me a little while ago,” I lied, trying to get out of it.
Her lips grabbed mine and she sucked up my tongue with her mouth. I couldn’t move.
“Ehhh!” My tongue stretched so hard my gut hurt.
I pulled back. The look in her eyes forced me to remember she took pictures of violent crime scenes for a living.
“I gotta go. My friend’s waiting.”
Then she grabbed the back of my head and pushed me into her face. I tried to stiffen, but it was too late. She bit a hunk of my lip. I felt blood rush to the surface; my skin dangled between her teeth. She spat the flesh on the floor.
“If I kiss it, it’ll help it heal,” she told me.
