“If I’m late, don’t wait. Go on without me. I may tarry a while.
‘Cause I need to know, before I go, how come the Devil smiles.”
Step by Step, Jesse Winchester.
“I watch everything. You know. Guy with girl, guy with guy, girl with girl, trannies, grannies, uncanny nannies, moms, dads, fiddles and trombones – the whole thing.”
Fred paused to catch his breath, and so halted his avalanche of innuendos. With my eyes still meeting his, I subtly beckoned to the glass of water between us. The last thing I wanted was to interrupt his flow. Although an encumbering mouthful, Fred’s confession rang with a genuine glee in the face of exposure. It was clear that, after weeks of probing the surface, I had reached his core. I had finally listened my way in.
“But nothing illegal,” Fred added. “I’ve jumped down many holes, but never that.” “I appreciate that, Fred,” I said. “There are many who do not draw that line. Exploring one’s sexuality may sometimes lead to slippery slopes, but I’m glad you’re making responsible decisions.” Fred smiled. “I suppose responsibility is my bread and butter, Dr. Rossi,” he said. “You can’t afford to slip when you do what I do for a living. You’d be buried alive.” “Well, Fred, I promise I won’t tell,” I said. “And please, it’s just Riley.”
We talked a bit more. I took care not to be picky. Being inquisitive is one thing; being nosy is another. Besides, once his previous reservations were unwound, Fred turned out to be quite direct. The hour passed swiftly. “Thank you,” he said, amidst the quiet rustling of his departure. “I really think we’re onto something. And I do feel safe here, you know. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.” “I’m glad you feel that way, Fred,” I said. “But as I’ve pointed out before, our time together only works when you work along with me. So if you feel safe here, it’s all thanks to you.” Fred smiled, perhaps a bit brighter this time. We set our next session, shook hands, then let each other go.
As I turned toward my desk, notes in hand, I felt a slight tingle of chill in the back of my head. I stood stiff for a moment in realization that I had not heard the sound of my office door close. The walloping crash of that well-oiled walnut hunk had tested my nerves for months, but I saw now that its absence was more unsettling still. In a shabby flaunt of courage, I peered over my shoulder at the naked threshold. There, half obscured behind its vain barrier of mutuality, stood a man of strange composure.
“Can I help you?” I asked, trying not to sound confused. Sometimes clients drop by to make in-person appointments, but most have the decency to knock. “He’s lying, you know,” the man answered. “Excuse me?” “He’s lying when he says he doesn’t watch anything illegal. He does. He also saves all of the contents.” I stared at him, unaware of what to say. “It’s interesting how neatly he can differentiate his attitude towards his students and his objects,” the man continued. “But then, it’s not up to me to pry out that complication.” He took a step forward, in such graceful subtlety that he appeared to be gliding across the floor.
“Sir, are you with law enforcement?” I asked, although I already knew he wasn’t. “I couldn’t disclose information about my clients unless legally compelled…” “Oh, no. I wouldn’t expect you to,” the man said, as he took another smooth and silent step away from the door. “And I wouldn’t need you to tell me. I know more about him than you do.” Another step forward. “I mean, besides his name. But names are overrated.” I felt a mild panic kindle in my stomach. Mine is not a position apt for riddles, nor a disposition apt for spite. By design of intuition, I rested my hand slowly on the desk, inches away from the telephone. I had started counting the steps between us when the man suddenly halted and held out his hand.
“Please, Dr. Rossi. There’s no need to be alarmed,” he said. “It seems I may have sprung too much on you before even saying hello. My apologies. I’m Daniel Dawson. You see, my name also happens to have a nice alliterative ring to it.” I looked up at Dawson’s face, then back down at his extended hand. Sweeping back the heat of vigilance yet unextinguished, I reached out and shook it. “Dr. Riley Rossi,” I said. “Excuse me, Mr. Dawson, but I’m failing to see the purpose of your visit here. If you mean to set up an appointment, I’m afraid my services are fully booked for the rest of the week.” Dawson nodded, but out of rhythm with my statement. His gaze slipped from mine and strayed across the air, landing momentarily on the client’s chair to his left. “Having said that, I’d be happy to recommend a colleague who works just a few blocks away.” Dawson curled his fingers, raised them under his nose, and sniffled, as if he had caught a foul odor. “If anything, he’s had a longer career…” “I can come by around 5 PM tomorrow,” he interrupted. “Mr. Dawson, I just told you that I’m fully booked for the rest of the week.” “No, your 5 PM tomorrow won’t make it. You’ll have a whole hour left open,” Dawson said. “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked. Dawson looked at me as though I had just begun to speak in a different language.
“Your 5 PM tomorrow is the man who had just left this office, correct?” My mind went blank. The best I could do was not to answer the question. But it was all the same to him anyway. “This man will fail to present himself. In turn, his appointed hour will become available.” “Why…” “Because sometime tonight, I will see to it that his closeted shortcomings are uncovered in full. All those who hold sway over his options will see the truth. The truth will set them free. This man will thus be presented with other priorities and won’t be here to meet you.” “You claim to know these things,” I said, “These things that will destroy him, but you don’t even know his name.” My voice was cracking. Whether from disbelief or dissonance, I could not tell.
“Names are overrated, Dr. Rossi. My knowledge stems from something far less pretentious.” “And what is that?” “Intuition,” Dawson said. “Intuition,” I repeated. A brief yet hefty silence loomed between us. I regretted not calling for security. “You do realize that this sounds absolutely ludicrous,” I said, “Not to mention impossible. If you’re referring to physiognomy, I can tell you that the art of reading someone past the point of general impressions has never been scientifically verified.” “Impossible. Right.” Dawson said. “Still, I know what I know. So there’s no use for that word anymore. For instance, I know this man in question has been working as an instructor at Massey Banks Elementary School for five years now. I know that his favorite food is beef jambalaya. He’s had thin streaks of romance in the past couple of years, but none that stuck for longer than a month. I also know that his pornography addiction runs far and deep. He will look anywhere, expend anyone, and stoop to any level to feed the fire. If reading is the term you’d prefer for what I do, I’ll be sure to use it instead in the future. All I ask from you now is an open mind.”
I stared at Dawon, speechless. Dawson held his hand below his nose, sniffled again, and smiled. “This cologne. It’s killing me,” he continued. “Look. You don’t have to believe anything I told you now. I only need you to approve that if the events I had described end up transpiring, and if the hour from 5 PM tomorrow is made vacant, you would see me again here in this office. In short, I need only your indulgence.”
I lay long awake in bed that evening. A gust of windborne rain lasted out the night, battering against the windows, but it was not what kept me up. It was neither the heat of cheap whiskey churning in my stomach nor the jubilant shrieks and groans of my next-door neighbors. It was not even the bizarre encounter with Dawson itself. What troubled me so until my eventual slip into alcohol-induced oblivion was the realization that, despite my insistence, I could not recall any significant feature of that eccentric individual. While I remembered his behaviors and most of our discourse, as well as the fact that I had surveyed his appearances more than once, all and every detail beyond an abstract impression eluded my consciousness. In the end, all I could muster, or otherwise imagine, was the mode of his gaze – the way that he seemed to stare a mile past your face, all the while faithfully meeting your eyes.
Author: ozpinhead
Oz
