Composition #12 December 23, 1957
It’s going to be on Christmas Eve. That way everyone will be talking about it the next day. That way, I’ll be gone and even though I won’t be dead, I’ll be like those dead movie stars. I’ll be a legend in my own right. They’ll be photos of the mess and they’ll call it some great name, some outburst of yellow journalism that will foster my ego until I’m on my deathbed. I’ll be the genius and you, the teacher, will be the insolent victim. Leslie is going to phone you the night before and tell you that she needs to see you. She’s going to breath heavily into the phone so that you’re reminded of how she sounds with you inside her. This is all very detailed, very well thought out…just so you know. She will tell you a story about how her brother eloped and her parents aren’t in the mood for Christmas Eve. They don’t feel like celebrating because they feel betrayed by their oldest. Then she’ll tell you that her other brother was killed when he was run over by a Studebaker on Lexington and Hayden. Hit and run. Never found the culprit. All these things will feed into why Leslie’s mother, Ruth, will not be in the mood to drink egg nog and sing about chestnuts. You’ll feel sorry for Leslie for about a minute. Then you’ll spend the next three minutes trying to reassure her that her family isn’t detaching faster than Willy Lohman’s. And then, true to form, you will look out for yourself. You’ll ask her where you should meet her and she’ll tell you room 18 at the Clementine Motel on Route 176. She says no one will notice you two there. And you won’t know our plan. You won’t know about me. Her in the outfit. You won’t know that this is how we’re going to kill you. But you would’ve. If you’d only read my compositions like you promised. You’ll pretend that you didn’t know about Leslie and Jake and that’s too bad because I already told her what you did to him. She’ll have that running through her mind and some people would wonder if a sweet girl like her could ever be an accomplice to such an awful crime. But not me. I’ll never wonder because I know that you stole from her. Worse than you stole the sun from me. And her heart will hurt and she might even cry a little when she looks away. But her sadness will be overcome by anger. Anger always wins. Always. Because if it didn’t, no one would call it disappointing. No one would call it a flaw or a defect in character. In the heat of the moment, anger supercedes all. It is potent in its overshadowing of both happiness and honesty. The noise of anger is what makes it so revered, the shear dominance over the situation purely because of its demeanor. Anger is a force outside of us. And once it gets in us…we are done before we begin. We know the outcome, whether it be our manifest destiny to act upon it, or perhaps, once it’s in us, it will prove to be our greatest mistake. It can only reveal itself as verbal or physical aggression and vehemence. And the minute you killed Jake, it was over. It’s as if all the decency that was left in you became something fleeting and malicious, airborne if you will. And it wafted in Leslie’s direction, until she breathed it in and tasted just a little bit of your poison. The calm before the storm. But you did this. You put that anger in her. And it’s unfortunate for you that your death is the only thing that will satisfy us at this point. Even Sherman agrees on that. 7:43AM . Lucky you.
Composition #13 December 24, 1957
Leslie’s going to have a boy bring a key to your house. I’m going to pay him 5 dollars to do this because he has nothing better to do and he won’t ask any questions. He’s not really the asking question type, the smart type. But then again, neither are you. That being said, you’ll take the envelope. The envelope will be snow white and the lipstick kiss on the outside will be ruby red. That’s the flavor of lipstick. That’s what it’s called. Leslie bought it once after she saw it on a girl in Harper’s Bazaar. You’re going to take the key and you will use it to get into room 18. There will be a cheap 4 foot tall wilting Christmas tree in the right hand corner of the room, and for a minute you won’t feel so bad about meeting a child in a motel…because you’ll be reminded of the tree from when you yourself were a child, the tree that you decorated. This one won’t be so nice. Only two thirds of the bulbs will light up and the fake snow on its branches will no longer be that perennial decoration. It will be rotted, kind of like mold, and then you’ll question your surroundings. What kind of place has she brought you to? And then you won’t care because she’ll walk out of the bathroom and turn down the lights. But what you won’t know is that I will be in the bathroom listening and figuring out exactly how I’m going to strike. She’ll be wearing a red lace bra, eyelet in its pattern, but vigorous in its effect. The underwear will match the bra and most importantly, she’ll be wearing a Santa hat. She remembered that you once told her you had a fetish for young girls in Santa hats, so I bought one at Woolworth’s. I want you to know then when I bought it, I was about to vomit. I think you should know that that is how much the thought of you disgusts me. I think if you know someone does that to you, you should tell them. They should know that they are that repulsive. And if they are that abhorrent, you can either kill them or they should leave. That seems fair, right? She’ll walk over to the bed and kneel down between your legs, just low enough to put her arms around your shoulders and make you feel like the compelling, necessary person you’ll never be. And that’s the last time you’ll feel anything substantial. It’s the last time someone will touch you and you’ll feel like you’re part of something, part of something that could have been great…if it weren’t illegal and fucked up…and the climax of a love triangle that should have never come to be. She’ll turn on a record, Dean Martin’s “Christmas Blues” to be exact. And she’ll tell you that she loves you. And for a minute you’ll question whether to say it back. That’s the one thing you can’t get off your conscience…telling the child you’re in love with her. It was always okay to fuck, because that was disconnected, that was still something that allowed you to exist in the confines of malaise and denial of being a pedophile, and at the same time allowed you to feel irreverence and passion without guilt. Dean Martin will keep talking. You know how he does it. He owes no explanations. Half talking. Half singing because he doesn’t have to sing to be a singer. And he’ll say, “When somebody wants you, somebody needs you, Christmas is a joy of joy.” I’ll come out of the bathroom with a folding chair and set it up right between the tree and the record player. It’ll make for a nice set up. It’ll be kind of like a diorama when they come to the motel and see how we’ve staged the whole thing through the filthy glass window to room 18. You can be my “persistence of memory.” It’s your fault. Nobody made you come here, you useless piece of shit. Anyway, I’ll sit in the chair and for a second you’ll stop kissing her…only for a second though because you’ll pick right back up after we’ve had our first eye contact. I’ll be wearing a crème bustier top and an A line skirt. You’ll take notice of both and then look at the clock. 10:16 on Christmas Eve. You’ll still be kissing her at this point and you’ll realize the only reason you’re looking at me is because you think I might like to watch…and maybe even join in. Maybe I will. I’ll walk over to you and her and pull her back by the locks of her hair. She won’t mind because part of her has always been into stuff like this. Then you’ll actually hear what Dean Martin is rambling on about when he gets to, “But friends when you’re lonely, you’ll find that it’s only a thing for little girls and little boys.” I’ll brush my lips against yours and then sit back down…and for one very, very brief moment, you’ll realize that you are a bad person, not only a molester, not only a bad listener, not only a bad teacher, but also a pedestrian, ordinary sick fuck, and most importantly…and what I’ve always labeled you as…a thief. You’ll realize you took Leslie’s childhood and what did you have to show for it? You didn’t take her anywhere. You didn’t whisk her away to a booming metropolis. You didn’t get sex that you hadn’t had before. And you are still here, rotting in what’s left of Telegraph Hill. You’ll finally realize at that exact moment that you’ve done a lap around the track that is your life, perhaps several laps, and you’ve ended exactly where you began, with no design for your existence and no memories of contribution. For the first time you will understand what you are. You are the worst kind of thief. You inflict great pain and experience tremendous misfortune, but to no avail. A thief who winds up with nothing. At that point, she’ll move over to whisper in your ear, just enough so that you can still see me when leaning a little to the right. You’ll lean and she’ll say, “I’ve got out at last.” You’re dense, but because you’re a teacher, you’ll know two certainties: (1) She knew her Bishop well. (2) This is the moment you are going to die. As you complete your lean to the right, just enough so that I can see you’re eye, I raise my revolver. I rack focus it for you…so that you know how close to your head it will be. And at precisely 10:17 on Christmas Eve, 1957, I’ll shoot you in the eye. Both eyes. Where it matters the most.
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