NOBODY'S BUSINESS

NOBODY'S BUSINESS

By Margaret Karmazin


“You never have a chick stay over?” Karl’s coworker Arnie asks incredulously. They’re working on a Mercedes SL 550 Roadster belonging to a friend of the boss. Karl is fond of this car, which comes in several times a year. In fact, he’d prefer if Arnie kept his hands off it, but things are slow today and the guy needs to look busy.
“No,” says Karl. He hates this type of discussion.
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause I prefer it that way,” snaps Karl.
“Chicks don’t like that,” says Arnie.
“You’re experienced, huh?” Arnie is twenty, Karl is thirty-four.
“I’m just saying.”
“Well,” says Karl, “I don’t really care; I enjoy my privacy. Now let’s look at the power steering line again. Something tells me...”
“Yeah, once again,” says Arnie, easily distracted.
Arriving home that evening, Karl pulls to the back and checks to make sure his neighbor isn’t about to grab him before he makes it into the house. The woman is a nurse, probably two hundred and fifty pounds and, there is no other word for it, desperate.
Once inside, he double locks the door and heads to the fridge for a beer. After dinner, he might enjoy a shot of that scotch his cousin sent from Ohio. The perfect kind of cousin who keeps in touch by email, is a whiskey buff and never visits. That’s what Karl likes, people who never visit. He doesn’t like explaining things; how would he?
She is waiting for him in the living room where he left her this morning, after he dressed her in one of his (and her) favorite outfits, a blue off-the-shoulder jersey over black jeans and slim silver boots. He washed and set her hair the evening before, so she is looking her best.
“Wait till I get your drink,” he tells her. “Zinfandel? I’ll be right back.” He sets his beer on the coffee table.
Did her eyes just move? He likes to imagine that they did, just a centimeter. She is a sly one. That’s her style, very understated.
He sets her glass in front of her on the coffee table and stretches his arm around her shoulders. “So, Amanda, how was your day? Did you get any work done? Did you see any friends?”
He takes a long sip of his beer and enjoys the sensation of it, so cold and creamy down his throat.
Amanda says nothing, but he knows her thoughts.
“Mine went reasonably well. Arnie was irritating as usual, but that’s just Arnie. We had the SL 550 in again, same issue as before. I like a Mercedes same as the next guy, but maybe they’ve gone downhill a little. If it was me, and I had the money its owner does, I’d get me a Bentley Mulsanne, though I’ve never actually worked on one.”
He notices that his fingernails look dirty, even after all that scrubbing at the garage. Amanda never complains about such things as some women might. He reaches over and caresses her breast. It’s amazing how vinyl and gel can feel so realistic, as long as they’re under the jersey material. When he removes her clothing, which will come later, the resemblance is less then perfect, but with the lights out he’ll manage to find it convincing enough.
“Would you enjoy watching some TV, Amanda?” He fondles her long, very shiny hair.
She does not object to ESPN even if he watches it for hours, which he appreciates. As he cuddles, his mind drifts to a story he read on the computer about a female robot some Vietnamese-Canadian guy invented. She can talk and clean the house, if he understood right, even recognize things like a glass of orange juice. The guy doesn’t have her perfected yet and of course once he does, something like that will cost a fortune, but Karl is saving up.
He experiences a stab of guilt just thinking about this, as if he is planning to have his wife murdered. But he finishes his beer and tries to put it out of his mind, lest Amanda realize what he is thinking. Well, he consoles himself, most relationships come to an end sometime and while this one here lasts, he will treat her well, he will keep her happy.

*****

Monica’s fourth grade teaching partner drops her off at the garage to collect her car. After a long wait, the cute mechanic in his thirties walks into the office, wiping his hands on a rag. He has the kind of build Monica most appreciates, meaty but not fat. There is no ring on his finger.
“How much?” she asks with exaggerated dread, her cute pose.
The guy’s expression is deadpan. “Fifty-seven ninety three,” he says. “Had to replace a couple of bulbs.”
“Oh!” Monica says cheerfully. “Not terrible.” She watches his face to see a gleam of interest. Nothing.
She digs out her wallet and is about to remove some bills, when she decides to write a check instead. That way the guy can see her address and number. While she writes, she glances up to see that he is looking out the window, not at her. There is something in his stance that implies impatience. As she rips out the check, she feels the usual hollow pain in her solar plexus. Once again, a man finds her about as interesting as a pebble lying in the street.
“Hey Karl!” someone yells from the back. “Hurry up, come see this!”
He signs the bill for her receipt and is moving away as he hands it to her.
In her car, she sits for a moment breathing heavily. Thirty-seven years old and what does she have to show for it? Never married, no kids, biological clock winding down, ten extra pounds on her, hair thinning a little top front, still living in an apartment. Her sisters have families, her brother is semi-famous. Her sixty-six year old mother is dating a man obviously in love with her while she, Monica, can’t even get one to ask her out.
She pulls out onto the street, narrowly missing a pickup truck. The drive shoots her the bird. “Go to hell,” she whispers.
She won’t let herself stay in this mood, however. Thank God it’s Monday, her day on the street. If she didn’t have that...well, she hates to imagine.
At home, to avoid bloat, she limits her supper to an apple and three ounces of cheese. Before she leaves, she will down a glass of dry vermouth for confidence. Just a little warm buzz is all she needs.
At nine o’clock sharp, Monica takes her place beside Adriana and Cat in front of an empty storefront next to Jaydee’s Bar & Grill. Monica knows she is damn lucky to be permitted the spot, usually occupied by the hot tempered Zaire. Why the girls have taken a liking to her, she does not know, but thanks her lucky stars.
“Hey, Teach!” Adriana and Cat shout. “You come to give us some lessons, huh?” They laugh, showing white teeth, not yet ruined by drugs and bad food.
Monica laughs and slides in between them.
“What’s that you wearing?” asks Cat. She rears back in exaggerated surprise. “Whoa, girl, you are one hot mama. Take a look, Adriana.”
Adriana bends to check Monica out. Monica blushes, but no one can see it in the dim light.
“Got you a new outfit, huh? I like it. You like it, Cat?”
“Can’t go wrong with red and black,” says Cat, wiggling her heavily plucked eyebrows. “Did you trim like I told ya?”
Monica blushes again. “Yeah. But not in a heart shape.”
They all laugh.
“You could get some higher heels or boots,” says Adriana. “They elongate the legs. They like that unless they’re tit men and then they don’t care.”
“They hurt my feet,” says Monica. “All the standing.”
“You won’t be standing long tonight, girl,” says Cat. “The place is crawling for a Monday. Zaire gonna be pissed she missed it.”
Monday is Zaire’s day off, when she spends time with her boyfriend and runs her errands. Monica does not believe that Zaire would rue missing another night on the street.
A car containing three young men slides to the curb. They are obviously drunk, the kind of set up everyone hates. “Shit,” mumbles Adriana. “I ain’t that desperate.”
“Fuck off!” yells Cat. “We taken!”
“Yeah?” yells the driver. “Hard to believe, ugly bitches!” He guns the motor and shoots off.
“Like I wanna get mauled, then not paid,” says Cat.
Monica is secretly relieved. She’s only been doing this a few months and it’s not like she isn’t aware of the danger. So far she has been lucky, but Cat and Adriana have told her stories.
“Remember the first time you showed up here?” laughs Adriana. “Sat there in your car, your face all shiny and scared.”
Cat laughs. They frequently entertain themselves with this story. “We thought you was a customer, one of them lesbos who digs hos. ‘Member that, girl?”
Monica remembers all right. More so, what she went through deciding to take the plunge. So depressed after that blind date had gone so badly, the one arranged by her college roommate, all smugly married and strutting around with her baby bump. “This one should be hard to mess up,” Penny had said in her patronizing manner. “His wife dumped him in January and he’s horny and sad. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”
In person the guy was obnoxious.
“You go to the gym, right?” he said after a weird, soy filled meal he had insisted upon cooking for her in his apartment. The conversation had been stilted and uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” she said. Where was this going?
“Why don’t you show me some of the exercises you do?”
“What?” she’d asked incredulously.
“Like, on the floor there, you can get down there and show me.” His tone had something faintly dirty about it.
Almost speechless, she had stood up, gathered up her purse and said firmly, “I have to be up early in the morning, sorry. Better get going.”
He’d looked stricken and disgusted simultaneously. “But it’s Friday. There’s no school tomorrow.”
She was quick. “I’m helping someone coach softball. Up and at ‘em!” she chirped, then was out of there so fast, she realized she hadn’t thanked him for dinner. Which she had hated, absolutely hated.
She had cried all night, then slept half of Saturday. After downing two martinis, she’d gotten the crazy idea to dress up like a hooker and go see what happened. Just in case the parents of any of her fourth graders happened to be out cruising for whores, she drove to a larger town some miles away. Her blood was racing; she felt reckless and wild, like she didn’t care if something bad happened. All the while though, she’d been quick-witted enough to take along a fake ID belonging to someone who had left their wallet on the bleachers at school, then never returned her calls about it. Why had she never turned the thing in to the authorities? It was as if she’d known she was going to do something nefarious. Not that the photo in the license looked much like her, but she was wearing a dark wig and had taken off her glasses. Better than carrying her own should the cops pick her up. They’d find out, of course, but they wouldn’t have her real one.
That first night, Cat had threatened to slit her throat, but somehow soon softened. “Zaire don’t work Mondays,” she’d told Monica. “You can hang with us then.” Maybe they didn’t see her as competition since she is older.
It was weird how Adriana and Cat had become her best friends, at least on Mondays. They didn’t ask questions; it was enough that she’d told them she’s a teacher. “Why did you let me stay?” she sometimes asks, but they just laugh.
A sedan pulls to the curb and the driver’s window slides down. The man is swarthy, Hispanic or Arab. He motions to Adriana who saunters over. After a moment, she nods to Monica and Cat, then walks around to the passenger side and climbs in.
“She’s had him before,” says Cat. “He’s decent.”
Monica nods, her heart thumping. Would she be next or left when Cat goes?
A middle aged man walks out of Jaydee’s. He has that country western look, probably right-wing politically, but maybe not. Monica likes his face. He wears a wedding ring, doesn’t even bother to hide it. He looks right at her.
“You busy?” he asks. His voice is rough.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says in what she hopes is a seductive tone.
“Well, then,” he says. “My car is over there. I got a room at the Bel Air.”
Monica winks at Cat and takes his arm.
Tuesday morning at school, she is worn out, but relaxed. She wears a secret smile. The other teachers may have husbands and boyfriends, some even affairs on the side, but she has her thing too.

*****

Father Jon Krol knows that voice well. She shows up for confession about once a month. Why she bothers coming, he isn’t sure; he supposes it gives her temporary relief, though she clearly has no intention of stopping the behavior. He hates to admit that he finds her stories entertaining. Of course, he can’t let that show in his voice.
“And this time?” he prompts.
“It was this middle-aged, country western type, surprisingly intelligent.”
“You don’t think country western types can be intelligent?”
There is movement on the other side of the screen as she changes position. “I guess I’m a little prejudiced,” she says. “Whatever the case, Father, I enjoyed the encounter. To get paid for it is icing on the cake.”
“You realize this is dangerous,” he tells her for the umpteenth time.
“Life is dangerous,” she retorts. “Being alone year after year is dangerous.”
“Do you have any intention of quitting?”
There is a long pause. Finally, she mumbles, “Yeah, I intend to, Father. If only I could have a normal relationship, I wouldn’t need it.”
Father Krol sighs and says, "And now the Act of Contrition."
Her voice almost cheerful, the woman begins, “O, my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee...”
Afterwards, Father pours himself a shot of scotch. He needs the fortification. The issue, he knows, is that like this parishioner, he has his own secret life. How can he condemn her when he is equally reckless? His own confessor, Father Nick Cassidy, is in Dublin visiting his sister. Jon wouldn’t bother him if he could. Though he knows he should talk to someone else, he can’t bring himself to do it. No, he’ll wait for Nick’s return.
The urge has not come over him for ten days, but he feels it building. Last night, he taped his wrists, then pulled off the tape. He pumped iron in the basement afterwards till he was exhausted. Yes, it’s been building.
The exhausting thing is, he has to be so careful all the time. This is the hardest part of being a priest, right after living in a fish bowl. He is forty-one and just recently, all this seems to have gotten to him. It was politics that started it, his rage at Bush. And then came Sherry Granford.
Just a year before, he didn’t know her yet. How about that? A mere year ago, he was still devoted to his calling, still there with Nick, content to be what he was and perform his duties. Then he got sucked in, played by that woman, conned like any other sucker. He can’t believe how bitter he has become.
He sips from his glass.
He had trusted Sherry Granford when she claimed to have preternatural powers, believed her to be some kind of throwback to Saint Therese of Lisieux or Saint Bernadette. There’d been reports of healings with backup from doctors. He had even promoted her to his bishop and the story had worked it way to the archbishop. They sent investigators to study the case. Father Krol had put himself out, right in the spotlight. He had believed in Sherry Granford. And then it all came tumbling down in a most embarrassing manner, when they were alone together and she confessed then stripped off her clothing and threw herself upon him. What a fool he had been. And an even greater fool when he’d succumbed to those advances.
After that, after his dressing down, his weeks of penance, something subtly changed inside him. His vision has grown darker and everything he watches seems to have a sinister motive where before it was innocent.
Last night he printed out information on three different Catholic universities at which he might apply for teaching positions. Things have progressed to that point. How he needs to talk to Nick.
“Father?” Colleen, the housekeeper, stands meekly outside the door to his study. “Anything you need before I leave?”
Another one of the thousands of meek Catholic women who devote their lives to serving priests, he observes. Head bent, chapped hands clasped, self-effacing. Why is this annoying him too? What has happened to the charity in his heart?
“Nothing, thank you, Colleen.”
“There’s meat loaf in the fridge and fresh potato salad. I would have made you a plate.”
He can barely contain his annoyance. Would she please just leave? “I’m really not hungry. Had a huge lunch, still stuffed. Clergy fraternal, fifteen of us. Really, I’m fine.”
As far as Colleen knows, he would be having the Adult Education committee meeting this evening, but it has been postponed.
She nods and disappears. He hears her shuffling around in the kitchen and then, mercifully, the closing of the back door.
He refills his glass and as he downs it, knows that tonight he will be going out. It’s as inevitable as having a bowel movement. A need build up, in the case of defecation digested food, and one has to evacuate. In the case of Father Krol’s situation, it is some kind of stress that builds up and calls for release, a release he is unable to resist.
He will need to fortify himself, so he gets up and fries half a dozen eggs, which he downs with a chunk of the meat loaf Colleen left. He showers, dresses in civvies, stuffs his rolls of gauze and tape in his jacket pocket and heads out.
The club is fifteen miles away in a private loft owned by Vincent Ludy, an ex-marine connected by marriage to one of the area crime families. Father Krol does not pretend to be unaware of this, though he never discusses with Ludy morality or anything else beyond what they are actually doing. Everyone in the place knows why someone is there and there is no need to elaborate on it.
“We got a new guy,” says Ludy. “You want a go with him?”
Father nods.
“That’s him in ring four.”
Father Krol slips off his jacket and proceeds to tape his wrists and hands. He moves his gloves from his locker and puts them on. The feeling is already zinging inside him.
The man waits inside the ring, probably fifteen years younger, a bit taller but lighter weight. “You sure you want to do this?” Father asks him.
The man nods. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“My name is Jon.”
“Mike,” says the man. He hasn’t put his gloves on yet. “You want regular or irregular?”
“Whatever you want,” says Jon.
Mike shrugs. “Irregular,” he says.
“Put your gloves on,” Jon says.
Mike does.
“Irregular, you say?” asks Jon to make sure.
And when Mike says yes, Jon gives him a punch like a piston and sends the man crashing. Jon hears the satisfying sound of his head as it smacks against the floor.
“Huh!” Mike gasps before Jon jumps onto his torso, hops off, then kicks him viciously in the side. Mike groans and rolls over, trying to get up, but John kicks him in the ass, then leans down and punches him in the kidney.
A red film drops over Jon’s vision which narrows into a hard, terrifying focus. “Get up!” he commands and when Mike staggers to his feet, punches him in the side of his head, reels back then slams again into his kidney. The man drops to the floor and does not move. Jon stands hunched and breathing hard, a feeling of satisfaction spreading through him.
Ludy walks over, eyes glittering dark. “You here to kill somebody?” he asks Jon. He does not know, of course, what Jon is. “I’ve been watching you.”
“No,” says Jon, but the terrifying thing is that he is unsure. The urge to do this, to hurt someone has been growing stronger and stronger.
“I don’t like to judge people,” Ludy goes on, “but your attitude is questionable.”
“I did ask him if he wanted regular or irregular.”
“Yeah, well...” says Ludy. “Irregular is one thing, manslaughter another.”
Mike on the floor groans.
“Can you get up?” asks Ludy.
He tries, struggles, then collapses.
“I don’t want the cops here,” says Ludy. “Maybe you oughta be the one to drop him at the ER.”
Fuck, the priest thinks. He removes his gloves and the tape.
Together, he and Ludy take off Mike’s gear and get him into Jon’s car. His bloody head flops against the passenger window. Then Ludy steps back, figuratively washing his hands of the whole thing. “You say it happened here and I’ll tell the cops what you did,” he says.
Jon nods and once in the car, examines himself for marks. Nothing on him though his hair is soaked with sweat. When he arrives at the ER, he slips into the black sports coat and collar he keeps in the trunk and dries his hair with his other jacket. Then he walks into the hospital and tells them that he found the guy on the sidewalk outside of some bar. They send out a stretcher.
Whatever Mike says if he comes to before Jon can get out of there, will they believe him over the word of a priest? The thing is, Mike has never seen him in the collar. To help his disguise along, Jon takes his sun glasses out of his pocket and puts them on.
Father Krol is completely aware that his world is crumbling.

*****

Tracy Betts is on second ER shift at Montgomery Memorial. Everyone she knows prefers day and only one person third, but second shift is Tracy’s favorite. That’s when the weirdest accidents happen, well, those more toward the end of the shift and the fun patients like prostitutes and assorted weirdoes. Tracy enjoys eccentric people; she always has even when a little girl.
She’s finishing up picking glass out of Mr. Daugherty, a foul smelling man who lives mostly on the street, some of the time with his sister when he’s not ranting and raving. He somehow managed to fall (drunkenly) on a heap of broken glass in a vacant lot, then to get a ride to the hospital. Who would have picked him up, bloody as he was, she can not imagine. When he arrived, he looked like he’d been chewed on by a sloppy vampire.
Dr. Jaiteley parts the curtain and sticks his gorgeous head in. “Some guy just came in, brought in by a priest. Looks like somebody beat the shit out of him. Are you almost done?”
She puts the last bandage on her patient and pats his leg. “Try to keep it clean, Mr. Daugherty.” She realizes this is a ridiculous order. The man has not bathed for months. He grunts something unintelligible.
She moves her ample bulk out of the cramped space, gasps for some fresh air and winds her way past several cubicles looking for the doctor. Dr. Jaiteley is thirty-two and living with someone; Tracy has only seen her once. She is tall and thin and very white with that almost alien Nordic look like that movie star, whatsername, who played Queen Elizabeth I. Dr. Jaiteley, sometimes she calls him Pete as that is the American nickname he has chosen to go by - Tracy knows perfectly well that someone like him would never consider someone like her as even remotely desirable. Only one man has ever suggested anything one could construe as romantic and even then, she wasn’t sure.
Pete has, with the help of an orderly and the priest, gotten the patient situated on the examining table. He flat on his back and staring vacantly. There is something wrong with his focus. He looks like he was run over by a truck.
“Holy crap,” Tracy mutters.
The doctor, Tracy and Ron, the other ER nurse, set to work. “This guy’s a mess. What happened? Dropped from an airplane?” Pete likes to joke, but he’s not very good at it. He orders a CT scan.
Tracy questions the priest later, then the cop arrives. Kind of ugly face, but cute ass in that uniform. She sneaks a listen.
“You say you found him lying on the sidewalk? Outside Jaydee’s Bar & Grill?”
“That’s right,” says the priest.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance instead of bringing him here yourself?”
The priest looks away. “I don’t know, just reacted without thinking. He wasn’t unconscious, just out of it. I knew I’d be coming this way.”
“How did you get him into the car?”
“Some guy helped me.”
“Let me see your ID.” The cop examines it. “What were you doing in that part of town?”
The priest looks him full in the face. “I was looking for a woman I counsel sometimes. She tends to hang out in that area. I was worried about her.”
“I see,” says the cop in the expressionless way cops have. “You were just driving around that area.”
“That’s right,” says the priest. He pauses. “Am I allowed to go now?”
The cop says, “Sure. We know where to find you.”
Something is off about that priest. Tracy doesn’t know what, but she’s good at reading people.
The rest of the night, things are quiet. The man they brought in isn’t doing that well. Subdural hematoma, fracture left arm, broken ribs, blunt trauma to the abdomen, kidney trauma with blood in urine, sprained ankle, nasal fracture and more. He appears to have amnesia. They take him up to Neurology.
The street is shiny wet when her shift is over. Everything looks sort of city jazzy, like she should be hearing a saxophone and be smoking a lazy cigarette. Instead, she’s home in ten minutes after a stop at Dunkin Donuts and lets herself into the darkened house. Once again, her mother has not remembered to leave a light on. What Tracy is going to do once the dementia gets worse, she does not know. Most likely, her mother will have to hand over the house and all her possessions and go into a home. Tracy will lose what inheritance she could have had. On some level, she doesn’t mind, it would be a clean break. Little apartment somewhere, just her own, no one to answer to, clean up after.
Upstairs, she checks on her mother who is, thank God, fast asleep though dressed in her winter coat, then strips off her uniform and puts on a dashiki. She nukes a Lean Cuisine, then makes herself comfortable in her own bedroom in front of the computer with a can of diet soda and the dozen donuts. The computer boots up and soon she is cruising her favorite sites and engaging in several conversations. She has four online personalities: Cherie, a hot redheaded call girl, age twenty-two (she uses a pic of a Ukrainian girl she scanned in from an old magazine); Toni, a thirty year old, also hot, anthropologist (got her pic online and photoshopped it); Vern, twenty-nine and a hardcore lesbian and Rich, thirty-eight, married with two kids and looking for some virtual action.
Toni is mock fighting with some guy trying to get her to meet him in Philly - he’s got a weird skull he wants to show her (LOL) and Vern is doing a political rant on some fundamental Christian site just to stir up trouble. Cherie just described her nipples to some guy who says he’d like to tattoo a snake on her and Rich is telling his tale of woe about his kid who pooped in the bathtub and how his wife won’t give him a blow job.
She takes a break, picks up the binoculars she keeps on her dresser and, turning out the lights, focuses out her side window to next door where the antisocial, but very cute, mechanic lives. He has his living room drapes closed, but there is a gap at the top he probably never thinks about and through which she can see in from her second floor perch. He has his arm around that big doll of his, his other hand fondling her while he stares straight ahead at the TV.
Tracy closes her eyes and imagines that she is the doll and that suddenly it will come to life. The mechanic will soul kiss her, then carry her slim body upstairs to bed where he will love her all night long.

Some of my online stories...you might have to copy and paste links to get there

Links to some of my stories:
SOUND EFFECTS: http://absentwillowreview.com/archives/sound-effects
A ghost story involving a suicidal teen and a woman from WWII

FATTED CALVES: http://www.anotherealm.com/2010/ar020110.php
Two men at work discuss their secret mission to save humans from being consumed.

BULL ELEPHANTS: http://calliopewriters.org/issue_130/BullElephants.aspx
A man receives a heart transplant and makes a decision concerning the now motherless son of the donor.

RISK: http://www.persimmontree.org/articles/Issue12/articles/MargaretKarmazin_Risk.php
(One of my personal favs) A woman of 75 decides whether to risk a new relationship.

AT THE STAR TREK CONVENTION: http://www.redfez.net/story/139
A man runs into the ex he hasn't yet gotten over and ties up some loose ends.

MEDDLING: http://www.thecornerclubpress.com/uploads/6/0/5/3/6053731/the_corner_club_press_issue_2.pdf
(Scroll down to page 167) A woman gets involved with the disfunctional family next door.