Talking Heads

Introduction

Every passing eye had to at least glance at her as she walked down the street. The natural grace and femininity with which she carried herself seemed to make her something more then just a very pretty woman in the prime of her sexuality. She was a true star. A shining star that no one person, or any one thing could deny. Men in their cars would slow down at the sight of her. Some with less nerve then others just to gaze at the splendor of her person and some to ask - or beg of her - to sit beside them, to share the same vehicle for just a few passing moments, anything, just to get close enough to her to feel enviable; to feel lucky; to feel alive.
Enamored of her – on such a brilliantly lit day as this – one of the many men too shy to make her acquaintance by any power of his own had just caught sight of her. He was gently slowing his car down, about to come to a four way stop on one of numerous, crowded Chicago city streets that he frequented when suddenly, their eyes met and what began as a nonchalant glance, became in milliseconds, a locked embrace of mutual understanding that neither fully understood, or fully realized at that moment.
Fidgeting nervously with the steering wheel as he came to the stop, the driver wondered what to say and feeling estranged as he usually did at times like this, looked fretfully away and said nothing at all. Instead, he decided to drive around the block then hopefully, by stalling his intentions, he might gain some shred of the nerve he needed just to say, ‘hello’.
Upon circling the block as it had dawned on him to do, he returned to the exact same spot he’d been… the well known six corner intersection in Chicago, where Milwaukee Avenue; Irving Park Road and Cicero Avenue all merge, but found no trace of this elusive, walking dream anywhere. Still, unable to let go of the astonishing image this stranger had created in his mind, he pulled the antique but unassuming car to the curb, put change in the parking meter and walked swiftly to the southwest corner of Irving Park and Cicero. There he stood, apprehensively scanning the streets for what he was now beginning to think of as more an apparition then anything else. Even so, his stubbornness prevailed and upon noticing the fashionable department store standing proudly on the opposite corner, he very hurriedly crossed the street and began pressing urgently against the heavy, tempered glass revolving door in his path. A path to which some - by this time - would have intuitively thought best not to follow, but nevertheless, he persistently did.

Chapter 1

Wandering around the ground floor of the prominent department store, turning in circles and appearing lost, this overwhelmed young man was about to give up chase when suddenly a friend of his – or so he believed it to be – began to speak casually to him… “Hey buddy, you can’t give up now, she’s a beauty. Only a loon would walk away now. You ain’t a loon are ya?”
“Of course I’m not a loon, but I can’t find her anywhere. Besides… there’s something strange going on. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Someth’in strange? What? She’s the kinda stuff dreams are made of. But then, I wouldn’t expect a nut like you ta appreciate such perfection. She’s a dish.”
“Why don’t you quit picking on him?” answered a second voice. A voice no one but Raymond Mort could distinguish from any other component of deluded imagination, and one he knew simply and affectionately as, ‘Guy’.
“Why don’t you quit butt’in in?” replied Joe, an imaginary, longtime friend Raymond had created for himself out of a desperate need to fill a void of scattered and sparse - at best - relationships. But although these self-fabricated personalities kept Raymond occupied, they also served to distract him and at a time like this, Raymond needed all the concentration he could summon.
“You guys, you’re mixing me up,” complained Raymond, as a lady standing at the cosmetics counter next to him couldn’t help but overhear the oddly, one-sided conversation in progress.
“Young man,” she asked with uncertainty. “Were you addressing me?”
“Well excuse me for breath’in lady. I didn’t know I was in between you, an a develop’in world crisis. Tell her where ta get off Ray.”
“Shut up Joe,” answered Raymond out loud.
“Excuse me?” responded an approaching saleslady who’d been watching from a short distance. “Is anything wrong?”
“This young man was just talking to…” began the irritated patron. But even as she spoke, Guy had begun a much more sensible, useful conversation with Raymond and was about to let on all that he suspected from the very start, or at least from the time Raymond had entered the store. “Hey,” he said shyly, deep from the frontal lobe of Raymond’s brain. “I bet I know where she is.”
“Huh? Who?” interrupted Raymond, speaking over the huffy customer, but lacking the ability to focus on reality for all that had taken place in his mind.
“Who do ya think?” replied Guy. “The girl you walked in here for, that’s who.”
“I’m sorry sir,” said a very confused looking saleslady from behind the glass cosmetics counter. “You’re going to have to leave.”
“Don’t get pushy babe,” commented Joe to Raymond. “Tell her where ta get off, Ray.”
“Shut up! Leave me alone!” insisted Raymond quite plainly. But in doing so, he’d only succeeded in making the situation worse.
“Do I have to call security sir?” questioned the petite, blonde employee. “It’s apparent that you’re in distress. We can’t have a scene here sir. People are beginning to feel uncomfortable.”
“I should say so,” agreed the customer, adjusting the fur hat she had on and pulling the short-waisted mink stole she wore ever tighter, communicating her disagreeable mood but drawing attention to the hard to hide pudginess of her ample shoulders, neck and back.
“I’m fine,” remarked Raymond, in what proved to be the nick of time, just seconds before an apathetic looking security guard could intervene. But in making his daily rounds, the guard couldn’t help but notice what was going on in cosmetics. “I’m really fine,” continued Raymond, to the wonder of the two ladies listening to him. Then, suddenly walking away from the scene that he’d inadvertently created – and acting on Guy’s sound advice – Raymond swiftly made his way to a part of the store that not many men will frequent, except for those occasions which include special holidays and birthdays, which is of course… ladies apparel. But since he had caught the attention of security, he did not go there unnoticed, as the guard stealthily watched whatever Raymond now did, but from a safe vantage point, where he would not be so noticeable or obvious.
Merely arriving at the third floor of the department store was no small feat for Raymond. Unlike so many other normal people, he fought constantly with himself, unbeknownst to himself of course, and in the guise of other character personalities. Being both fortunate and unfortunate - for although he was never alone - he was never at peace and Joe and Guy spoke to him nearly all the way there… “Where the heck are ya go’in?” complained Joe. “She ain’t here. Turn this boat around. Let’s get outta here. She left, can’tcha see?”
“I have a hunch Raymond,” answered Guy. “Keep moving till you get to ladies undergarments.”
“Oh great,” responded Joe. “Now all the broads are gonna think he’s a weirdo. What’s next, ya want him ta try on thongs?”
“Don’t listen to him Ray. Just do me a favor an hang out for a minute in the panty and bra section. If you have to, just tell the saleslady it’s your girlfriend’s birthday. Go on.”
“Okay, okay,” muttered Raymond, in answer to his symbiotic friends. “I’m here,” he said, looking up at the sparsely clothed female torso on display - which in lacking all extremities, strangely attracted Raymond to it. “Now what?” he continued, unable to take his gaze from the lifeless mannequin on display.
“Now look around you,” added Guy. “Look! Look there…”
“Where?” replied Raymond.
“Right there,” continued Guy. “She left the dressing room door open. You see the open door now?”
“Well I’ll be,” reflected Joe with a hint of jealousy. “I never woulda thought.”
And as Raymond peered down the short corridor which led to several dressing rooms, he plainly detected the girl who had up till now eluded him, and she was just as beautiful in his mind now, as she had been when he’d first caught sight of her, in that magic moment on the street outside the store.
Furtively – as a cat might keep watch over its prey - Raymond’s eye followed the girl’s every motion and for a few moments, seemed capable of predetermining any position in space and time that her carefully guided body might take up. But even as he watched her slowly smooth out any loose material in the translucent stockings she had on, he could not escape the equally watchful eye of the security guard who had followed him, and would have realized this sooner had it not been for the mesmerizing display which so effectively had attracted all of his attention. He did not even hallucinate, and the inner voices he so frequently heard were for the time being, quelled.
Standing in awe, Raymond watched as the girl’s procrastinating hands drew what seemed deliberately slowly up the length of her shapely leg. As if she knew she was being adored and admired from afar and as if time were not a factor at all, but of all things a compliment or testament to her being... a shrine to the shining light of her spirit. Although nothing about her – in those few passing moments – might be realized or collectively expressed as possessing or emitting, a soul.
Almost simultaneously, as she worked her way up the smooth, underside of her thigh, lifting the light, summer-weight material of her skirt towards her small waist – the guard who’d been watching Raymond as Raymond watched the girl - moved into position, and summoned his attention with a hard pressed hand to the shoulder and a firm but polite, “excuse me, sir.”
“Huh, what?” came sudden words from Raymond, expelled from him like the abrupt burst of helium from a floating, toy balloon. “What’s wrong officer?” he continued, as coyly as he could.
“I think you know, sir,” explained the guard, with a nod of his head in the direction of the dressing room door. “If you come along quietly with me now, an don’t make a stink over this, I won’t have’ta call the cops. But there is one more thing I must ask, sir.”
“What’s that?” replied Raymond, respectfully on cue in an effort to avoid a confrontation with the police.
“Don’t ever come back here.”

While Raymond walked numbly to his car, he became emotionally stirred upon finding a folded book of matches stuck under one of the windshield wipers of his nineteen forty-eight Oldsmobile. The cover read; Martha’s Vineyard, Come strike up a friendship or two! And inside the matchbook, someone had written a brief but poignant note; Vicky 827-5858 call me.
But as Raymond stood beside his car, reflecting on what must have happened in the past hour or so of time which had elapsed, the department store security guard was still trying to determine the best way to approach a sudden problem he’d encountered, as it was unlike anything else he was familiar with, and was feeling great uncertainty and anxiety over it all…
“Er, Miss?” he began, for lack of better words. “I’m not exactly sure how to say this, but I don’t think this place is right for you, or you’re right for this place… whichever.”
“Oh really?” she answered innocuously.
“Yes, really.”

Chapter 2

It was a typical gray Chicago afternoon when Raymond pulled up in front of the tall brick apartment house he lived in. He rarely had trouble finding a parking space and today was no exception. Getting out of his car, he walked around the shiny chrome front bumper of the Oldsmobile and stepped over the curb to the sidewalk. Looking up at his second floor apartment, he noticed the partially open living room blinds and wondered how in the world he’d forgotten to close them. “Could be Lorin or Danny up to their old tricks again,” he said quietly to himself.
“I doubt it Ray,” replied Joe.
“Why’s that?” asked Raymond naively.
“’Cause neither of ‘em got any arms or legs, that’s why. Honest ta God Ray, why do you keep fergett’in that?”
“Habit I guess.”

It took time for Raymond to climb the stairs to the second floor. It took more then a normal amount of time for him to do most anything - considering the psychological burden he constantly carried with him and the voices which rarely allowed him to believe that any of his thoughts were those of his own. So by the time he got to his own front door, he was not only tired from the physical exertion of climbing, but from the long and enduring argument between Joe and Guy which he consistently found himself in the middle of.
“Why can’t you leave him alone?” questioned Guy, in reference to Joe’s own habit of badgering Raymond, brought on – in all probability - by Raymond’s characteristic vulnerability and sensitivity, thoughtlessly established and conditioned by Raymond’s own father.
“Why can’t you mind your own business?” snapped Joe, just as Raymond was opening the front door. But in regards to the self-contrived argument within him, Raymond wisely thought to change the subject, hoping to occupy the others with a new topic for conversation, and something else for them to think about other then their petty differences.
“Hey,” he said aloud, just to make sure every strange character he’d created would listen to what he was about to say. “How’s everybody do’in huh? Is everybody happy!?” he finished saying, closing the door behind him.
“Ya got a kinda captive audience I’d say, wouldn’t you?” replied Joe, in reference to Raymond’s declaration.
“I suppose so,” answered Raymond. “But it seems to me there’s a much healthier way of looking at it… don’t you think? I mean, I always have someone to talk to. I never get lonely like I used to. See what I mean? How are you guys anyway?” he asked, referring to the four decapitated heads he’d added a lacquer finish to, and placed neatly on dinner plates in his small, modest kitchen.
“No worse for wear an tear,” replied Danny in Raymond’s mind only of course, as heads without bodies are not actually in the habit of maintaining any lengthy and meaningful conversation – if indeed at all.
“Not bad, we’re just bored out of our mind’s, that’s all. I mean look at us… it’s not like we’re go’in out ta play tennis now is it?” answered Lorin, another of – shall we say - Raymond’s more recently acquired dinner plate specials.
“Now hold on just a minute,” answered Raymond, in readiness with a savvy reply he’d long thought over in his mind. “I laid out board games for you guy’s; there’s a radio; plenty of food in the fridge – you know, it’s not like you guys are prisoners or anything. I even put cards on the table, in case you wanna play poker or something.”
“It’s your dad that put us here, Raymond,” quipped Dan. “You must have realized that by now. You held the knife, but he put it in your hand. Don’t you see?”
“I don’t see anything but my four good friends, all gathered around, amusing each other. Tell me Dan,” continued Raymond, turning his back for a moment to hang his hat on the coatrack next to the door. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Your dad pounded you every time it rained, didn’t he?” insisted Lorin. “What’s right with that picture?”
“How did you know that?” returned Raymond, angry and questioning Lorin’s source of information.
“You must be kidding… it’s written all over your face Ray,” added Dan. “How did you think you could keep it from us anyway? The fruit stand he owned over on Maxwell Street… It went bust every time it rained, isn’t that right? Nobody shops an outdoor market in the rain, and you got the brunt of it, didn’t you?”
“Yeah so? Lots a people get pushed around, what’s the big deal,” responded Raymond with an air of concealment, opening the refrigerator door as he spoke, scrounging for something meaty and filling to take up the empty space in his stomach. And in finding what he was looking for, laid it down in a space between the four human heads.
“See…” replied Dan poignantly. “That’s what I’m talking about. Don’t stand there and tell me we’re drawing a senseless conclusion, or don’t have a reason to complain.”
“What?” answered Raymond as he gathered the yellow mustard in his left hand, pressed the ketchup to his chest with the same arm, and closed the door with his right.
“That steak you’re about to dig into,” explained Dan.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“It’s a chunk of what used to be my leg, isn’t it?”

As daylight progressively waned and twilight fell, Raymond sat down in his favorite chair next to a living room window and admired some of the artwork he’d collected. He was an excellent artist – except for the fact that he had trouble painting people – and had, with the help of Lorin and Dan, secured a number of authentic masterpieces by replacing them with his own work. Inevitably, they came to realize that working as security guards at The Art Institute Of Chicago had it’s perks, but had they known how dear a price they were to pay, they never would have enlisted the aid of the seemingly innocent, Raymond... a severely handicapped schizophrenic, who would do anything, or go to any length to secure a lasting relationship. And losing their heads – both figuratively and literally was a serious obstacle in the course of their plan that they never could have imagined. Having known Raymond only briefly - sparsely enough time to realize who or what he really was.
While shadows conjured strange shapes and cast them freely on the opposite wall of Raymond’s living room, he suddenly recalled the book of matches he’d found on the windshield of his car and retrieved it from his pants pocket. “Go on,” prodded Joe. “what’cha wait’in for, brick to the head? Give her a call. Do I gotta dial it for ya?”
“No… no,” responded Raymond, stirring gradually from a sullen mood. “I’m good, really. I’m gonna do it right now.”
“Then, pick up the phone,” replied Joe. “I’d hand it to ya myself, but as you can see, I’m just slightly, ah… how would ya say it… incapacitated right now.” And as Joe finished his provoking course of reason, Raymond had begun to feel the odd sensation that he was not only being observed by Joe and the others, but guided or directed as well, and moved to emotion and guilt - which he was not altogether without - he opened the book of matches and called the number inside.
Listening to the telephone signal on his end of the connection, Raymond wondered to himself how many times Vicky’s phone must have rang. Losing count after so many lengthy moments of waiting, he was about to hang up - feeling at once sensations of relief and disappointment - when very unexpectedly, she picked up. “Hello,” he heard, but in return, only found himself hesitating to answer out of a lifelong fear he felt for the opposite sex.
“Who’s there?” she asserted, in an effort to find out who’d called, but to her, the line was dead as Raymond had found himself frozen with anxiety and unable to respond as if he’d felt the terrible, paralyzing effect of some great, venomous sting. But in hearing no reply, Vicky simply hung up the phone.
“Why didn’t ya say something? What’s a matter with you? I’m just not gett’in through here. Ya know, you can lead a horse ta water, but ya can’t make ‘im drink. I’m giv’in up on you Ray.”
“Don’t be so hard on ‘im Joe,” admonished Lorin. “He’ll catch on, there’s still time,” he added - and all in Raymond’s mind of course - as Lorin listened and coached, he realized through the lack of participation he’d witnessed in Raymond, that finding a girl could never be a spectator event and if Raymond lacked effort out of fear, then advice on the proper conduct might help to fill this void and eventually get him socially connected.
“Give her another call,” urged Lorin, knowing that at this stage, making repairs to a relationship that had hardly even begun would not be difficult to do. “You know she wants to hear from you, otherwise she never would’ve left her number.”
“Good thinking,” agreed Guy. “All he needs is confidence. Go on Ray, do what he says. She looks like a very exciting person, doesn’t she?”
“You know it,” said Joe. “She’s hotter then a new set a snow tires.”
“Sounds good to me,” agreed Dan. “At least it’ll get you out of the house. Just see that you don’t get carried away, know what I mean?”
“No,” answered Raymond, feeling sincerely puzzled over Dan’s remark.
“He means, yer not gonna make stew outta her like you done to us, are ya?” replied Joe, quite deliberately.
“Heavens no,” said Raymond. “Why would I do that to such a pretty young girl? Besides…” continued Raymond, catching himself in a rare admission, or acknowledgment of preferences he was not in the habit of sharing. “She’s not really my…”
“Oh no,” began Joe. “I knew it all along. He’s a frigg’in homo. I can’t listen ta this anymore. Just put my head in a bucket a water. Get this thing over with. I can’t take it no…”
“No, wait!” exclaimed Raymond. “You’ve got me wrong. That’s not me. It’s just that I prefer to be in the company of other guys sometimes, that’s all. I find it easier to talk to them, that’s all, honest.”
“All right, so,” said Dan, appearing – at least to Raymond – to be thoughtfully considering what Raymond had said. “You sure you still wanna pursue this whole thing? I mean, you didn’t turn out to be exactly trustworthy you know. For example… one minute Lorin and I are leaving the apartment, then the next thing we know, we’re meat on the hoof.”
“You didn’t give me any choice,” pled Raymond. “You were leaving, just because you noticed Joe and Guy.”
“And that’s exactly how we ended up,” interjected Lorin. “Like Joe and Guy, on dinner plates. So let’s get this thing out in the open Ray… what’s ta keep you from do’in the same thing to her? Is she gonna end up on a plate right next to us, or what?”
“I give you my word,” said Raymond. “I promise… that will never happen.”
“Alright then,” decided Lorin, in Raymond’s best interest. “I’ll tell you what you do then. You call her up, an you tell her…”

Chapter 3
“That’s exactly what I said... Yes Vicky, I think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Ohh,” cooed Vicky, listening to Raymond talk on the phone - straining to hear him over the many muffled voices coming from the Italian restaurant, Mattatoio’s which she lived directly above. “You sound like such a nice guy. I knew it when I saw you driving by the Marshall Field’s store today. I’ll tell you what… how would you like to come and watch me work tonight?”
“I can watch you work?” echoed Raymond.
“Good boy!” said Lorin quietly in Raymond’s ear - illusory of course - but to Raymond this spontaneity of his imagination was just the boost of confidence that he needed.
“Yes,” she whispered seductively. “I don’t see why not. Lots of people watch me. I sing over at Martha’s Vineyard. Remember the matches I gave you? That’s the place.”
“Cool!” replied Joe upon overhearing this, a little too loud for Raymond’s liking. “Oh baby,” continued Joe, unable to contain his excitement. “I don’t believe it! Ray got himself a real dish!”
“Quiet Joe,” answered Raymond. “You’ll spoil everything.”
“What?” asked Vicky, wondering if the mumbling she thought she’d heard had been meant for her, or if she’d been confused between her conversation on the phone and the obscured voices of the restaurant.
“Nothing,” said Raymond, in an effort to try to hide what he truly believed were the voices of his friends but were in reality, four slowly decomposing pieces of flesh. “Anyway,” he went on. “Where is this place? I’d really like to see you perform.”
“Rush Street,” she remarked, very matter-of-factly. “806 North Rush. Show begins at eight, see you.” But before Raymond could get directions, she’d hung up the phone and left those more mundane, or earthly concerns all up to him.
“Rush Street?” mumbled Raymond, to his small gathering of close friends. “How the heck do I get there?”
“Hmm, she gave you an address, didn’t she?” asked Lorin, having had much experience – in Raymond’s mind at least – in the pursuit of the opposite sex. “So, you got a map of the city, don’tcha?”
“Yeah.”
“So bust it out. Lets get go’in. There’s no time ta waste. She told you the show begins at eight, right?”
“Right,” replied Raymond, beginning to feel the tension of the situation growing, and in letting his nerves get to him, he was starting to lose touch with more practical matters. “But how did you know? I’m the one she told,” he added, in keeping with his wrecked perception of reality.
“Never mind Raymond, just get the map,” responded Lorin, and in retrieving it, Raymond unfolded it and held it up in front of the four severed heads that he’d moved from the kitchen to the living room coffee table.
“There now,” he explained, calming himself somewhat in the comfort of knowing that he’d enlisted the aid of his four close friends. “Can everyone see it?” he continued. “Should I hold it up higher?”
“No, I can see it just fine,” answered Lorin.
“Sure Ray, no problem,” remarked Guy. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you there.”
“Hmm,” muttered Dan after a few moments of unobtrusive study. “Why doesn’t he just take Sheridan Road to the drive and get off on Chicago Avenue? Isn’t that the fastest way?”
“Exactly,” stated Lorin. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re such a ball of paranoia, you’ve got us worried too. Calm down Ray… everything’s gonna be fine.”
“Well, it’s just that, you know…” started Raymond.
“What?” asked Joe. “What’s your problem now?”
“I… oh, you’re putting me on the spot,” exclaimed Raymond abruptly. “Why should I have to explain this in front of everyone?”
“Spit it out, would ya,” replied Joe, impatient with Raymond’s attitude. “Just say it. Don’t be so damn bashful all the time.”
“But, you know, I don’t get out much. I don’t see why I should have to spill my guts like this, in front of everyone too. It’s so embarrassing.”
“C’mon Ray. We’ve all been on dates before,” said Guy, in an effort to comfort Raymond. “What’s the trouble?”
“Well…”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” stated Joe, quite suddenly and very unabashedly. “This is his first date! You believe it? What are you… thirty, thirty-five, an you’re just gett’in out now?”
“Thirty-two,” muttered Raymond self-consciously, to the four, motionless heads.
“Oh well,” interjected Guy, before Joe’s remarks could become the predominant ruling of the day, tarnishing Raymond’s reputation all the more. “Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” replied Joe sullenly. “Better late then never, right?”
“I guess,” remarked Lorin, as if he could sense disaster in the future, and implying that perhaps it would be better if Raymond had never gotten started at all.

It was already about thirty minutes past the hour by the time Raymond found a reasonably close parking space within walking distance of the club. He was scared to death though, as he backed up into the empty space, centered his car between front and back vehicles, and turned the engine off. Just sitting there in the driver’s seat made his hands tremble with fear and allowing his apprehension to get the better of him, Raymond found himself sitting still as a stone grey statue for what seemed like eternity before finally, reaching for the driver’s side door handle, lifting up on it to disengage the latch, and opening the long, heavy metal door.
Getting out of the car was no small task either, and in beginning his journey to the nightclub, Raymond only found himself returning to his car moments after he’d left upon realizing he forgot to put money in the meter. Playing his minor role to restore the city’s coffers, he set out once more to his destination, though riddled with anxiety as he went.
“You’re a mess Ray,” resolved Lorin, in Raymond’s distorted mind. “I’m telling you, this is no big deal.”
“This is no time to bother him,” expressed Guy, attempting to appease Raymond in his hour of need. But for all the semantics in Raymond’s mind, his strongest accomplishment was in dichotomy – having become at once not only his own best friend, but also his own worst enemy.
“Please,” asked Raymond earnestly. “I can’t do this now… I’m nervous, can’t you see?”
“Yeah I see,” returned Joe. “But in the meantime, you’re completely miss’in the place. Ya walked right past it.”
“Oh no,” replied the star-struck suitor. “Now I see it,” he said aloud, with intentions of informing every dimension of his splintered perception. Looking on at the big, red, neon letters of the pretentious nightclub sign, Raymond finally admitted, “I can’t go in anyway. I can’t do it. You guys will have’ta do this without me.”
“How the hell are we gonna do this without you?” reprimanded Lorin. “This whole thing was for you. Now you’re telling me we came all the way out here for nothing? Joe was right all along… you’re just too messed up to help.”
“No I’m not!” Raymond vehemently expressed, as pedestrians looked on at the display of Raymond arguing with himself. But in surprising effect, and with a sudden burst of angry energy, he pulled open the vestibule door, only to stumble into the great mass of a man whose job it was to eject disorderly persons from the busy club. “Excuse me,” muttered Raymond, having bumped his forehead off the large fellow’s chest, trying awkwardly to regain his composure. “I didn’t see you there. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it sir,” returned the heavyweight bouncer, who - though dressed quite well - couldn’t help but give his job away. And as he loomed over Raymond’s head - by a most remarkable difference – offered an even more poignant observation. “I’m sorry sir,” he began, as he noticed the casual way Raymond had dressed for the evening. “But the club rule here is, ‘jacket required’. I can get you one if you like?”
“Tell him thanks and let’s get moving,” directed Dan. “We’re missing the show. Somebody’s up on stage right now, singing. I can hear her from here.”
“That’s good advice Raymond,” agreed Guy. “You don’t want to miss Vicky’s act.”
“Be quiet, would’ja?” blurted Raymond to his imaginary friends, with the doorman looking straight at him. But in wondering what Raymond could have meant – and in seeing no other person in the vestibule other then Raymond – the doorman replied, “Did you just tell me ta be quiet?”
“Uh… no,” responded Raymond meekly.
“Yes you did. I heard you plain as day.”
“No really, I didn’t,” reaffirmed Raymond. “I wasn’t talking to you… I was talking to them.”
“Who? Listen Mac, there’s nobody here but you. What are you try’in to pull anyway? Are you gett’in smart with me?”
“No, no. I promise,” Raymond went on to assert. “I’m not pulling anything. All I want to do is watch the show, really. Please… can you get me a coat?”
“I might,” considered the impressively built man, yielding in consideration of Raymond’s near apology. “But if you start anything…”
“I won’t. You have my word,” returned Raymond. And in crossing his arms as if to gain a better vantage point with which to examine Raymond’s sincerity, the doorman finally turned his questioning gaze away, and disappeared behind a second door – the only barrier now left between Raymond and his immediate destiny.
Moments later, even before Raymond had anymore time left to worry about what he would do, or say, the skeptical bouncer returned with what appeared to be, a very nice looking dark grey sport coat. In fact, a patron of the nightclub may even have expected it to be from Raymond’s own wardrobe, had it not been for the coat being at least, two sizes too big.
“Here ya go,” he said, offering the coat to Raymond and holding it open for him to get his arms into it, first one and then cautiously, the other. “Not bad. Just a little on the big side. Whaddaya think?” But as Raymond stood in the vestibule; sleeves hanging down to the middle of his palms; shoulders of the coat missing his own by noticeable inches of material, and body large enough to envelope another small person, he was somewhat dissatisfied looking and only shrugged his sagging shoulders enough to let the doorman know that he accepted the ruling. Even though he wasn’t overly excited about wearing it, the coat was something like a one way ticket, or a stepping stone to his desired goal.
“It’s fine,” remarked Raymond, buttoning the coat at the waist and pressing down over the front of it, as if to smooth out any would-be wrinkles. Then, with no further emotional trauma or hesitation, the doorman at last opened the second and last passageway to Raymond’s metaphoric, Shangri-la. Doubting himself all the way, he walked past the doorman and on into the club, having felt very much as if he’d completed some great task, mastered a great obstacle, or even a transition in afterlife on a perilous journey. A so-called checkpoint between the doomed or more fortuitous, but just which path he’d taken, he couldn’t say, and neither could anyone else.

Martha’s Vineyard was for the most part, one large room. At the far end, a considerably sized band sat with their backs facing a wall and after them – to their left – a stage, well lit and skillfully conceived, providing excellent sound quality. Easily accommodating a group of performers - or one artist at a time - the nightclub was well noted for fine acts that played around the city and even some who strayed and knew no geographic limits, which their obvious musical talent would imply. But more unique, or more pertinent to the club, was a certain type of performer. The type which came around on a regular basis, more because of their own special appeal to the greater spectrum of crowd then anything else – which of course are terms that one might apply to many a star with a wide and varying fan base. But this type of star, or the type of singing star that Vicky was, far exceeded the mundane or norm. She was one whose fan base did not vary as much as one might think, especially upon first observing her. Although she certainly was different, and stood out amongst the competition.
When Raymond walked in, he was met near the door by the maitre d’ and led to a table which lacked view or social station, but because the nightclub was filling with an abundance of the usual crowd – some of whom expecting tables they’d previously occupied – there were very few other options left open to the courteous, but practical restaurant host. But as far as Raymond’s timing was concerned, it couldn’t have been better. He was just about to witness for the very first time, the talents of the one who’d captured his attention and enticed him away from his tedious seclusion – even though to Raymond, his activities at home were filled with the company of good friends.
Just as he was making himself comfortable in his chair, the house lights began to dim and for a few unsettling moments, all Raymond could see were the rising tufts of cigarette and cigar smoke from the audience. But suddenly and without warning, the most powerful spotlight in the nightclub came on, focusing its solitary beam to center stage, and in its bright, revealing path stood Vicky – as stunning as ever – in a shimmering white, light reflecting sequin gown; long white gloves that extended up her forearms; blonde hair draped around her shoulders, looking as perfect as anyone could ever have dreamed possible. And with expert punctuality, the band began playing on cue, precisely after she’d smiled, addressed the crowd and started to sing into the waiting microphone. The song Vicky sang that night to open her act was ‘The Great Pretender’ and as it began, even Raymond who had a most difficult time focusing on anything was caught off guard by the splendor of the moment, and all time – for just a brief measure – seemed to stand still… and in its absence, all that was important was Vicky, and everyone concentrated their attention, and every eye was on her...
“Oooh yes, I’m the great pretender
Pretending that I’m doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I’m lonely but no one can tell

Oh yes, I’m the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game but to my real shame
You left me to dream all alone

Too real is this feeling of make believe
Too real when I feel when my heart can’t conceive
Oooh, yes, I’m the great pretender
Just laughing and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I’m not, you see
I’m wearing my heart like a crown
Pretending that you’re still around

Too real is this feeling of make believe
Too real when I feel when my heart can’lt conceive

Oooh, yes, I’m the great pretender
Just laughing and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I’m not, you see
I’m wearing my heart like a crown
Pretending that you’re still around”
And when she was finished, the audience cheered and began shouting requests for her to sing, as if she had no song itinerary of her own. One voice - which seemed to ring out above the others - was of a man, dressed impeccably in a black suit who sat very near the stage. Although his companion for the evening was another man – much as if women were not at the forefront of their minds – both he and his friend were so taken with excitement, their combined energy seemed to fill the air with ecstatic human charge, and emanate as if it were a real source that could, and would, energize the entire room of people. “Why Don’t You Do Right,” he yelled out. And his request so consumed Vicky with polite admiration that in response she began to sing it and the band followed even as the first word rang out. All the while, the massive spotlight from above did its best to figuratively expose her - not as if it had literally removed selected pieces of clothing – but in a sense, to expose otherwise intangible emotion and upon closer observation, each evocative motion of a sexuality in turmoil…
“You had plenty money, 1922
You let other women make a fool of you
Why don't you do right, like some other men do?
Get out of here and get me some money too…”
As Raymond listened spellbound to Vicky, it never occurred to him that he was only one of many who had fallen in love with her. Each night the dormant time frame between music sets was cause for great concern amongst fans and faithful patrons throughout the audience. Everyone wondered who Vicky might reward, showing favor to, by sitting next to them for a few minutes; sharing conversation; signing an autograph or two and who knows… dropping possible hints as to any love interest she might have at the time. And tonight wasn’t much different then any other night, the only real difference was in her selection – a patron who’d never been there before now and one who was completely naive about Vicky, the club she sang at, or for that matter, anyone in the audience.
After smiling and bowing to the audience, the great spotlight that had worked so well to highlight her voice, skill and vivid emotion suddenly disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and with it went some degree of aura that accompanied the star – as excitement came to ebb and people again focused on their own petty troubles – a natural course of events that even an attraction like Vicky could never prevent. In fact, all that really made this night different then any other was the direction Vicky had decided to walk in after leaving the stage. It was not usually her practice to mingle with those in the audience who sat so far from the stage. But figuratively – although she was unaware of it – the path she was on promised life altering events. Though all she knew at the time was that this path felt right and all that was necessary - besides the magnetic attraction she felt - was the will to pursue it. Easily done she thought, approaching Raymond’s table and catching him off guard as he thought to answer one of the constant imaginary companions he indulged himself in.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she politely but sincerely remarked. “I didn’t know if you were here or not. That bright stage light makes it hard to see people and you’re sitting so far away. Couldn’t they find you anything closer?”
“I didn’t see you there either, before you started talking. You look great tonight,” concluded Raymond – drawn to Vicky’s pretty face, perfect body and charm, like a moth to a flame. “Please… sit down,” he continued, getting up from his chair to help her into the seat next to his. “I’ve never been to a place like this before, and everyone here is dressed so well. I feel kind of, uncomfortable.”
“You’re lucky,” answered Vicky, searching through a small white purse she’d carried with her for a cigarette and upon finding one, she neatly pushed it into the end of a pearl handled holder, waiting for Raymond to light it. “I’m here almost every night,” she continued, watching Raymond’s face in the flickering light of a match. And searching the shadows of his youthful features, her eyes glanced to his and she wondered then what order of things might be concealed beneath the two opaque apertures. “Your eyes are so dark,” she reported unexpectedly, thinking aloud. “Do you have many secrets?” she said questioningly. “Everyone has some… You know, things you don’t often talk about.”
“Well I…”
“Never mind,” replied Vicky. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m prying,” she remarked, looking as if she’d brought shame upon herself. But even as she finished speaking and her face looked to another direction into the dimly lit crowd of people, her hand meekly dropped to Raymond’s knee and surprised by this, his body language changed rapidly to plain discomfort. Hunching his shoulders, resting his arms on the table, Raymond was about to express his feelings even more so when – like a young, mischievous teen – Vicky put her forefinger to her mouth, urging him to be quiet and told him, “it’s dark… no one can see us in the corner here anyway. Why don’t you just relax? Here,” she continued, taking his right hand and letting it drop as inconspicuously to her own left leg as possible. “Loosen up a little. I can tell we’re good friends already. I have a good feeling about you. I just know it’s right.”
“But you don’t even know my name,” replied Raymond, in nervous protest but nevertheless, voicing his concern. And also - due to Raymond’s lack of experience with the opposite sex - a restlessness replaced what little relative calm he’d arrived with. “My hand…” he started to say, but before he could finish his sentence, Vicky had moved his hand to other, even more secluded regions of her furtive anatomy. “You’re… but I… I thought…” he began to say, at a loss for all composure.
“I what?” she returned, noticeably annoyed and herself, very much surprised. “I thought you knew,” she said very quietly, as if to keep a secret. “Practically everyone here knows.” But without waiting for any further explanation, Raymond got up from the table, walked quickly to the door with quiet desperation and made his way to the outside world, as if at last, the world at large was a safe refuge – one he never before realized until now.
Resting his back against the cold, wet wall of the building, unaware even of the rain cascading over his head and face, Raymond did what he could to calm himself and as he closed his eyes he could hear the many real voices inside the nightclub – all struggling for dominance in a mind filled with fear and illusion. And this new illusion, a masquerade deposed? A beautiful woman - or so he thought until now - so real he could touch her, so very much unlike the voices in his head. But touching her, only scared him of life all the more.
Standing against the wall as if it depended on him for support, he listened to the real noise of the nightclub door as it pushed open from behind, creating a small vacuum - sucking in any unwitting air around it as a consequence. Watching Vicky appear – listening to a loud burst of thunder in the distance – Raymond studied her face and realized she’d been crying. “Why did you leave like that?” she asked. “I told you I had good feelings about us. Why do you want to hurt me?”
“Hurt you?” replied Raymond. “I don’t wanna hurt you, but get real Vicky… I mean, you look great, that’s not the problem, but for one thing, we’d never be able to… get together, or, you know… have a family. You’ve got a…”
“We barely just met, Raymond,” interrupted the stylish blond. “Why would you suddenly worry about making a family now? I don’t know where this is heading, but why do we have to know? Why can’t we just live our lives one day at a time, like any other practical couple.”
“But Vicky…” Raymond began to say, now quite thoroughly soaked from the falling rain. “You have to admit. We’re not just another couple. For one thing…”
“Raymond don’t you see,” she interjected. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I am who I am. I like myself this way. To me, we are just another couple. This is the real me… I’m not wearing a mask.”
“Why don’tcha try putt’in one on?” remarked a passing stranger, who neither Raymond or Vicky had given much thought to. Especially since the man was only one of many, walking back and forth in the steadily falling rain and dark of night. But in eavesdropping on the couple’s conversation, he made his case a special one, delivering a bitter, poignant barb to each of them. “Do the world a favor,” he insisted. “An while you’re at it,” he continued, this time with Raymond in mind, who was still standing with his back to the wall. “You could use one too, queer-o. This whole place is fulla queers.”
“What?” said Raymond, as the sinister man walked slowly by, with no fear of retribution. “What’s he talk’in about? What’s this place got to do with anything?”
“You didn’t know?” answered Vicky, shedding tears all the more. “Martha’s Vineyard is a gay bar. We all hang out here. Half the city hangs out here. Most of the people in the audience are gay.”
Then, as the situation in Raymond’s mind grew to disproportionate madness and even as the nightclub’s sport coat he still had on draped clownishly down over the palms of his hands, Raymond reached under his shirt for the concealed dagger he never left home without – a dagger of no uncertain meaning which still bore an authentic Nazi swastika on its handle – drawing Raymond ever nearer to it and the abominable history it represented.
Rushing up on the unsuspecting man in the dark of night – no other person, not even Vicky realized what Raymond was about to do next, as the flashing steel of the knife he brandished reflected any artificial light of surrounding bar room signs - soon to disappear with one great lunge into the lower right side of its victim, buried to the hilt in the soft living flesh of its abhorrent, yet desired human mark.
One such lunge or stab was all that was necessary, as Raymond dragged the fresh corpse to a small alley between buildings, and was pleasantly surprised to find Vicky there by his side, nearly dry eyed, feeling that the level of her mood had risen. “Can you get me a few bags?” he asked her, showing no remorse or embarrassment over what he’d just done.
“What kind of bags?” replied Vicky, wiping any remaining tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and forearm.
“Big ones… the kind that won’t leak.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she answered calmly and in a manner well suited to any successful accomplice.
And as Vicky walked back to the nightclub, on her way to a rear stage door entrance, Raymond busied himself with the task at hand - decapitating and dismembering the once rude pedestrian who was unfortunate enough to cross paths with one of the most brutal, unconscionable murderers in the fine city of Chicago. But oddly enough, even as Vicky had become a party to Raymond’s ruthless act, it only served to bring the two closer together, simultaneously forging a commitment between them – as two children might have sworn an oath in blood, then fondly refer to themselves as ‘blood-brothers’ – the new couple found themselves equally inclined.
Then, with a bunch of garbage bags the club used to control refuse and maintain a satisfactory cleanliness, Vicky knelt beside Raymond on the cold, wet pavement and very matter-of-factly, began stuffing body parts into bags. Hardly missing a beat, the pair had the corpse packed into four large bundles in mere minutes… a fraction of the time it had taken the stranger to blossom into the fully offensive, malevolent nuisance he’d become, which only prompted Vicky to remark, “That sure didn’t take long, did it? A lot less time then I realized, anyway.”
“Well,” Raymond began to say, hesitating as he wondered how best to tell her. “I’ve done this before.”
“Really? How many times?”
“Enough to get good at it, I guess. Hey Vicky,” Raymond asked, tying the last knot in one of the bags as he spoke. “My car isn’t far from here. For now, why don’t we drag this stuff behind the dumpster where no one’ll see it, then we can load it into the trunk an scatter the parts around town.”
“You think a everything, don’tcha?” replied Joe, who’d been generally quiet until now, content to take a backseat to Raymond’s real personality, or killer instincts. As for the remainder of Raymond’s complex cast of personalities, they seemed for now to be content just to watch the master at work as coincidentally, one of the only times Raymond could concentrate without hallucinating was when he was taking life, because - almost like breathing air – it seemed to be a natural brain function of his and required no special thought or control.
“Whad’ja do that for?” asked Lorin, in Raymond’s busy mind.
“I’ll tell you later,” replied Raymond, just muttering the words but still audible enough for Vicky to hear.
“I don’t know what you meant by ‘I’ll tell you later’ but I like your idea. It seems as good as any right now,” remarked Vicky. “You know,” she continued. “This whole thing makes me feel like I’ve been here before, kinda like... Déjà vu. You ever feel that way?” she said, having a difficult time walking the distance to Raymond’s car in her tall, white high heels. “You know that feeling I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know the feeling,” answered Raymond. “But we better get a move on, Vicky. These things take time,” he said, pointing out his car as the evening’s rain clouds gave way and beams of reflected moonlight seemed to light the path to their destination - as if killing were a valid road or purpose to their lives. And in finding each other, they had finally found themselves.
“I never felt better,” Vicky said, as she patiently waited for Raymond to unlock the car’s passenger door.
“I know,” Raymond agreed, staring down into the steering wheel, equally as taken with the gruesome course of events as Vicky was.
“I know what I wanna do, after this is over,” implied Vicky.
“What’s that?” responded Raymond, with an innocence and purity very much in keeping with the way others perceive him, and which obscured his true morbid self.

Chapter 4

Without the Librium his body had grown accustom to – which helped to quell hallucination and induce sleep - Raymond was happy in the arms of his lover, but never fell asleep that night. Instead, he laid awake in Vicky’s comfortable bedroom for the remainder of the night, listening to the voices in his head and the real voices which came from the restaurant beneath them, carrying like echoes through ventilation ducts and other uninhabitable space. So when the sun rose and lit the room as if now, nothing could hide from view or the scrutiny of any casual observer – Raymond got up, sat on the edge of the bed and suddenly felt that he - as well as all things discovered by this impending brightness - might be in a kind of danger. The way a mouse might feel with nowhere to run or hide from a cat. But resting peacefully on her back without a care in the world, Vicky slept through the night and on into morning as if a long sustained burden had been shed and in its place a new relationship took hold. One that she thought would prevail over time and fill any void of loneliness. Because, like anyone else who had long sought after the right mate, Vicky felt she had found him; that there was no one better suited for her; no one understood her as well, and that her search was finally over. Any type of unpleasant flaw of Raymond’s could be – in her mind at least – dealt with at the proper time and conditioned from his character as one might seek to remove any bad habit from many a man. Unfortunately, what Vicky did not know was that Raymond suffered from a full blown psychosis which could not be conditioned from him as one might repair a broken arm or hope to heal a minor wound. What Raymond suffered from – unbeknownst to her – required medication and professional counsel, things that without proper training she alone could never provide. But just how all that would affect their relationship, only time would tell…
“Hey big guy,” Vicky said playfully. Slowly awakening and stretching out her arms and legs much as a cat might after a long night on the prowl. And what might that mean to a mouse like Raymond? He wasn’t sure what kind of personality Vicky had. He had no idea if she was a dominating type or had a more passive, ‘ live and let live’ temperament. The latter was more then a bit ironic, considering the body parts they had just hours before strewn about the city’s dumpsters without guilt or remorse, and the former seemed out of touch with Vicky’s sensitivity and femininity. So to Raymond - and even to some others - Vicky had fallen between the cracks of any one single interpretation and was clearly a concoction of characteristics and in that way, not unlike the rest of the crowd. Falling somewhere between the extreme black and white, we are all - for the most part – a compound of many shades of grey. Few people are merely good or evil, but usually rationalize their actions somewhere inside these shades of grey. And in this respect, Vicky was no different then anyone else. Only the matter of her decision to live life between sexes made her different to most of the population, who generally are content to leave this world the way they came in – as a man or as a woman. However, Vicky’s thin, light, facial features; a curvaceous figure induced by hormones, and surgically supplemented breasts were more then enough to conceal the fact that she’d been born a man; was proud of her well endowed genitalia, and never thought to have it removed. In fact, as sexuality is concerned, she lived quite happily in the shades of grey most of us have never seriously considered. But her thoughts, reactions, emotions or summarily… the real content of her character very much made her a woman.
“How’d you sleep?” she went on to ask, as she used her fingers to smooth out any tangles in her long blond hair the same way any woman might have done.
“Not too good,” responded Raymond. Laying back down in the bed beside her, folding his hands to rest them behind his head as he spoke. “I’m so used to Librium every night… I can’t fall asleep without it.”
“Do you want to try to get some sleep now? I can pull the drapes closed and block out the light.”
“No, I’ll just wait till tonight. Thanks though,” he added, rising from the bed. “I had a good time.”
“Huh,” she answered at first. Misunderstanding what Raymond last said. “You mean… what happened between us?”
“Yes. I’ve never done that before.”
“With anyone?” she replied, “or with someone like me?”
“With anyone.”
“Wow…” said Vicky very softly – breaking off eye contact from Raymond to look away and gather her thoughts - as if the whole idea were as incomprehensible to her as it was for Raymond to confess. “You mean… you were a virgin? I was your first?”
“Yes,” Raymond admitted, trying to dress himself, finding Vicky’s questioning less intrusive and easier to manage with his back turned to her, as he sat down again on the edge of the double bed to look for and put on his socks. “But do we have to talk about it so much? It’s embarrassing.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m sorry – I just wasn’t thinking.”
“And now you think I’m a weirdo, don’t you.”
“No, no Raymond. I don’t think you’re a weirdo. I think you’re great. The way you stood up for me and everything last night. That bastard will never pick on anyone again. No Raymond, I don’t think you’re a weirdo… I think you’re wonderful. And I had a good time with you, too. I had no idea it was your first time.”
“Really?” he said, finding it difficult that anyone could admire him for any reason. His past weighed so heavily on his mind that it managed to effect nearly every living moment of his waking and sleeping world. “You like me?” he asked, with so much humility that Vicky seemed able to feel it as well as hear it in his voice.
“Oh yes, I like you a lot. But you sound so surprised. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” responded Raymond. “Most people just don’t like me much. But, I do have four good friends.”
“Well… there, you see. Other people like you too. I’m not the only one.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he remarked, standing to fasten his pants and button his shirt. “They live with me.”
“All of them, in the same place? It must get a little crowded. How do you avoid bumping into each other?”
“Oh… they pretty much stay in one spot. But they sure do a lot of talk’in. Anyway Vicky, I better get back. They’re gonna wonder what happened to me.”
“Can’t you call them from here and let them know you’re all right?”
“I suppose, but they never seem to pick up. I don’t know, I guess they just don’t feel comfortable on the phone.”
“I have to work tonight anyway,” said Vicky, getting out of bed naked, feeling confident about her body and very much unembarrassed in front of Raymond. “Will I see you later?”
“I just wanna find out what’s going on at home,” replied Raymond. Sincerely believing that the four severed heads he kept at home on dinner dishes might be somehow, in someway, getting into mischief. “I’ll call you.”

“Still got blood on your coat, don’tcha,” Raymond heard, upon opening the door to his apartment. The busy traffic on Sheridan Road in Chicago never really stopped and as Raymond stood in the hallway with his door open, he could hear the cars below going by – one after another – creating a monotone, bothersome noise, but Raymond had grown used to it, and listening to the self-fabricated voices in his head was certainly, no problem at all… “An it ain’t even your coat. You weirdo, whad’ya do it for anyways?”
“Not now Joe please, I’m tired. I stared at the ceiling all night.” But as Raymond replied, he realized Joe was right and looking down at the hanging sleeves of the sport coat he had on, he noticed the blotches of dark brown blood that had stained it; stains neither he or Vicky were aware of. “Uh-oh… whatta I do now? I can’t return it to the nightclub like this, an they’re gonna want to know what happened to it.”
“Why don’t you ever think before you act,” interjected Dan. “How many life sentences can one guy serve?”
“Hasn’t anyone ever called you a name before?” remarked Lorin, in response. “I can’t believe you killed him. Now what are you gonna do? You know you can’t get the coat cleaned, right? It’s incriminating evidence, and the blood will never come out of it anyway.”
“Damn,” Raymond mumbled. “How do I get in to see Vicky sing. I’ll never get past the doorman.” And as Raymond thought over what to do next, he sat down in his favorite chair to look again at the authentic collection of art work he’d stolen with the help of his friends. ‘What now?’ He thought, as his eyes searched over a priceless original landscape by the French master, Claude Monet. The artist who worked in a style we know as Impressionism and who is thought to have been responsible for its very invention.
“I have an idea Ray,” said Guy from Raymond’s handicapped mind. “All you have to do is replace the coat with one that looks just like it. How hard was that? The bouncer will let you in, an no one will be the wiser.”
“Why didn’t I think a that,” replied Lorin, envious – in Raymond’s mind at least - of Guy’s ability to think on his feet, but ‘feet’ were indeed a matter of metaphor for either Guy or Lorin.
“Looks like it’s time ta go shopp’in, don’t it Ray?” suggested Joe, in his own brusque way. “Bust out some cash an let’s get a move on.”
“Right,” said Raymond, to no real person other then himself. And standing up from his chair, he walked a determined path to his bedroom; removed the cash box he kept on his closet shelf and opened it, revealing its contents to no one but himself, but in his mind, he was one of five people who knew where it was and how he’d acquired it.
“Would’ya look at that,” remarked Joe, admiring the view of money on display in the possession of one so dispossessed... Raymond. “Looks like beín a crazy ass killer pays off.”
“You know why I did it,” answered Raymond, noticeably shaken at the mention of recent events in Raymond’s past that didn’t quite go according to plan. A plan conceived by Lorin and Dan but executed – in more ways than one it seems – by Raymond, who radically altered it by murdering the art dealer he was sent to do business with. “He was cheating us. I had to do it, so I took the cashbox too... so what. You would’ve taken it... you know you would have. Just look at it,” he continued saying. Absorbed so in the contents of the box, that for the moment, his hands remained deep inside, filled with currency of all denominations, as his mind was filled with greed. “And the original paintings,” he continued. “I couldn’t very well leave them in France could I? The police would’ve traced them back to us in Chicago.” But in summation, Raymond’s argument to himself was the long known fact that he could not get along with most people for any lengthy period of time – after they discovered just how mentally troubled he was – and therefore, the money he stole didn’t just make him rich, but made available to him a luxury that most of us just cannot afford. “I don’t have’ta work if I don’t want to,” he exclaimed, to an audience of one... himself. “I can’t work anyway,” he admitted aloud. “They won’t stop picking on me. Whenever I go to work... they always pick on me. Why do I have to tell you?” he said, removing his hands from the box and seeming to match his now sullen mood with the articulation of his body language.
“Leave him alone,” contended Guy, as Raymond struggled to displace the feeling of guilt and replace it with the contentment that was never quite within his grasp. “Can’t you see that arguing about the past isn’t going to help anything? What’s done is done,” said Guy wisely, in Raymond’s twisted mind. “C’mon Ray,” he added, resolved to making things better than they were. “Grab some cash an let’s get outta here.”

“You are a thirty-eight,” said the portly salesman, who spoke in a thick European accent, immediately taking for granted that he was superior to Raymond in many respects and the plain fact that he was providing a service and that Raymond was a cash paying customer made no difference to him at all. “Maybe you are a thirty-nine?”
“I’m a forty-two coat,” replied Raymond meekly, quietly contesting the fact that he’d always been a forty-two and didn’t see the reason to buy something that would most likely be too small.
“Nonsense,” said the salesman, very distinctly and with imprudence. And as he spoke, he reached high into a space filled with sport coats reserved solely for size thirty-eight. “Here,” he added, holding the coat in position so that Raymond could put it on, one arm at a time. “Doesn’t that feel right?” he said, as Raymond examined himself in the three-way mirror. “Any bigger and you would be swimming in it.” But as Raymond moved his arms forward and backward in the jacket, stitches in the shoulders and center seams all strained to capacity and were about to begin to pull apart when the salesman interjected with, “You don’t have much to say, do you? You are afraid of your own shadow, aren’t you?”
“He ain’t scared a his shadow, bitch,” offered Joe, in response to Raymond’s vulnerability and unwillingness to argue. “Show ím who’s boss Ray. Tell ím ta get lost.”
“Just tell him it’s too tight,” said Dan, knowing that this was a good time to intervene. “We don’t need another corpse on our hands, Ray. If he doesn’t want to help you, just go somewhere else. Go on, just tell him.”
“I... It’s...”
“Yes,” answered the stout man, amused and laughing quietly but loud enough for Raymond to hear. “You have something to say, say it.” But too late for anymore words or opinions, the seams in the small coat began to give out and tear, causing Raymond even more embarrassment and humiliation.
“Sockím Ray,” exclaimed Joe in Raymond’s mind. “Knock ím back ta wherever he came from, foreign kook. Where does this guy get off, anyway? Go on Ray... give ím the old one, two.”
“Hmm,” continued the salesman. “It looks as if you might use a size up after all,” he flawlessly reasoned, taking note of the two inch tears in various seams. “Try on this thirty-nine.” But when Raymond finally took the initiative to look up into the crowded rack filled with coats - searching restlessly for what he needed - he eventually noticed one that was a close color match, modestly pointed to it and requested, “that one... up there. That’s what I need. A forty-two, please.” And after looks of frustration and anger had been traded and exchanged between both customer and salesman, Raymond at long last had won the chance to try on the coat he needed in the proper size.
“You are a stubborn one,” reaffirmed the salesman, helping Raymond take off the torn sport coat that was at least, two sizes too small. “Here then, have your way,” he said with displeasure, as if a small war had been lost, making Raymond the conquering army of ‘sport coat land’. “Like I said before,” he continued - unbroken in will and determination - “You are swimming in it.” But when Raymond stood looking at himself in the full length mirrors, he got nothing but rave reviews from his loyal but fictitious friends...
“Looks like it was made for ‘im, don’t it?” remarked Joe, who never was one to withhold opinion out of modesty or shyness.
“Indeed,” said Dan, duly impressed by the way the new coat precisely fit. “Why don’t you pay him and lets get outta here?”
“Right Dan,” answered Raymond aloud and uninhibitedly - admiring the coat in the mirror. “That’s a good Idea.”
“What?” asked the salesman, already annoyed at the thought of having to restrain his will over Raymond and unable to figure out if he was trying to provoke him more, or if all Raymond was guilty of was a simple and sincere mistake. “Who is Dan?” he continued. “There is no ‘Dan’ here. I am not Dan, I am Rolf. Rolf Messerschmitt.”
“Oh, hey Rolf,” said Raymond, very plainly and aptly. “Dan is... a friend of mine,” he added, seeing no reason to keep his friendship a matter of secrecy.
“There is no one here named Dan,” replied the department store employee. “Look around.” And seizing the opportunity to persecute Raymond beyond what might be considered more commonplace jest, he went further to remark, “maybe you are one of those nuts, huh? One of those sensitive Americans who needs his momma?”
“You know what I’d do if I had hands Ray,” Joe fervidly expressed. “I’d wrap ‘em both around that bastards neck… that’s what I’d do.”
“Just give him what we owe and let’s get out of here,” admonished Guy. “We don’t want to create a scene, right Ray?” And in heeding Guy’s warning, Raymond reached into the wad of bills he was carrying, dumped a few of the crinkled notes onto a nearby tailor’s desk and began to walk away.
“You are forgetting your change,” exclaimed the salesman, surprised to find that a customer who at once appeared so subdued could also have the capacity to pay his bill in large denominations like hundred dollar notes. After all, most of the men who went suit shopping – who possessed actual wealth - were not ‘afraid of their own shadow’.
“Keep the change,” said Raymond, looking back only once to make sure the man had heard him, and to get one last look at the face of one who had treated him with such contempt – a face representative of many such people who had treated him in much the same way.

“Hello Vicky,” said Raymond into the phone, waking up from his nap and slowly recognizing her voice. Still surprised to be the recipient of any phone call, he held the sad but firm belief that he must be one of the least popular people in the city of Chicago. “What’s go’in on?” he said, in his own Chicago style dialect.
“Nuth’in much,” she answered in hers, which was just one more small characteristic the new couple shared in common – that innate ability to be and sound… Chicagoan. “Are you coming to see me sing tonight?”
“Sure,” he answered, yawning and rubbing his eyes to help clear them after so many hours of inactivity. And after a few more minutes of chatting with his girl over the phone – which was in itself, a new notion to Raymond – he got out of bed, got cleaned up and put on the dark grey sport coat he’d bought just hours before.
Parking the big, forty-eight Oldsmobile, Raymond arrived at the club with time to spare. Glancing around himself, he took note of the many cars, pedestrians, and flashy social hot spots which the Rush Street scene in Chicago has always been known for. Suddenly apprehensive and wondering what might be happening inside the club, Raymond acted on his curiosity – as so many of us are inclined to do – and walked through the doorway of the nightclub - more so then not - eager to engage in the activities of the night and what it might hold in store for him.
At the door greeting people on their way in, stood the same tall, stalwart bouncer as before. But because of their previous meeting, or perhaps because the coat Raymond was wearing brought back an instantaneous memory – the doorman’s reaction to the sight of Raymond was something like the greeting of an old friend and went a little more smoothly then expected. But for Raymond’s liking, maybe too smoothly… as the friendly encounter had caught him off-guard and especially so because of the new, perfectly fitting coat he was trying to pass off as the one he’d hastily left in.
“I was wondering where you went,” responded the doorman, as Raymond entered the vestibule. “You took off in that coat so fast, what was I supposed ta think? For a while there, I thought…”
“You thought I stole it?” interrupted Raymond.
“Yeah well, like I say, what was I supposed ta think? But, you brought it back, so… no harm done, right? Besides,” he continued saying, eying Raymond as if he could see into, or through him. “That old rag never looked so good. What’d you do to it, anyway?”
“Oh, the coat,” replied Raymond, doing a not so very good job of covering up the truth.
“Yeah, the coat,” repeated the bouncer intuitively. “That’s what I’m talk’in about, right? What’s up with it?” he added, as new body posture he assumed - intentionally crossing his arms - only served to transmit his curiosity all the more, adding to Raymond’s nervous tension.
“Uh, yeah,” was all Raymond could say, fighting off the urge to turn, run out the door and never come back. “I…”
“Quick Ray! Tell him you had the coat cleaned,” said Lorin, in Raymond’s desperate imagination.
“I had it cleaned,” remarked Raymond abruptly, clearing his throat timidly. “Yes, cleaned,” he repeated, as if to make the statement more valid through the repetition of the word, ‘cleaned’.
“Well hey, you look good in it,” returned the doorman, having taken notice of the fact that Raymond’s height and weight were very much proportional, and although he was not a fan of exercise, the frequent walking Raymond did around his neighborhood helped to keep his weight down. It just so happened that the type of flesh Raymond had a taste for was not particularly high in fat, since it was of a human nature and required him to burn a certain number of calories in order to achieve his horrific goal… like any other carnivore, in any other jungle – Raymond stalked his prey and worked hard for it. “I don’t mean to butt in,” he continued, becoming more polite as time went on, disclosing more of a growing interest then Raymond ever would have expected. “But, do you meet someone here? Is it someone special?”
“Yes,” said Raymond slowly, feeling by now that something more then concern over his sport coat was brewing in the doorman’s mind. “I do meet someone here,” he added, searching for words, not quite knowing what to say that would appease the large, nightclub employee, make the situation better and allow him passage through the second door.
“What’s his name? Anyone I know?” he asked, naturally assuming that Raymond had a sexual orientation leaning to persons of the same sex, since after all, ‘Martha’s Vineyard’ was a club which specialized in providing for, or developing such relationships. But now, feeling hard pressed for an answer to what might’ve seemed a simple question, Raymond could only look down at his feet in embarrassment and confusion – unable to admit his desire for Vicky in specific and in general, unable to admit his feelings. “C’mon,” continued the doorman in the same vein. “Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t spread it around.”
“Promise?” asked Raymond, wondering if it might be better to lie then admit the truth.
“Sure, I promise.”
“Vicky,” said Raymond, thinking that sooner or later, the truth would come out anyway.
“You’re kidding me. She’s a doll,” remarked the door attendant. Making his enthusiasm very clear and even sounding congratulatory. “I couldn’t get within a mile of her. You’re one lucky guy, you know that? I thought you had a kind of magnetism,” he went on to say.
“No,” answered Raymond, regarding himself as one who possessed only run-of-the-mill looks and charm. But as the two stood and talked, other patrons began to form a line behind Raymond, causing the doorman to begin thinking about bringing his query to an unanticipated conclusion.
“Hey look,” he began to say, watching people file in through the corner of his eye. “I’d like to talk, but I gotta do my job. Why don’t the three of us get together sometime?”
“You mean… you wanna meet Vicky?” asked Raymond, wondering if the bouncer’s friendly manner might turn into competition for the same girl, causing Vicky to lose interest in him. After all, Raymond felt insecure when he compared himself to most any man on the street and when he stood next to someone as tall and handsome as the doorman, he felt especially inadequate.
“Call me Richard,” the doorman started to say quite casually, even though waiting room in the vestibule had all been taken up and a line of anxious people was beginning to form on the sidewalk outside. “And don’t worry about it. Tell you the truth,” he went on to say. “You’re the one I wanna talk to.”
“Me?” questioned Raymond. Unable to understand why anyone would show interest in him, but for the whole of his life, he’d never frequented or ever been to a place like Martha’s Vineyard and consequently, never knew what it was like to be appreciated for who he was – having led a very insular life - nor had he ever had the nerve to explore his own sexuality, until now.
“Sure you, why not?” he restated, trying to make Raymond understand that it was not Vicky he was interested in but the thought of becoming Raymond’s protector or guardian and the feeling that Raymond was humble and submissive were key ingredients to the kind of relationship Richard found appealing. “But I can’t talk now bud. I gotta let these people in. I’ll catch you later, Mister...”
“Raymond… Raymond Mort.” And shortly after allowing Raymond entrance into the club, Richard found himself thinking more and more of the smallish, thin man but not just out of a fondness for Raymond’s personality or trim, chiseled features, but for something else altogether. Something which brought back an ever so vague memory… something about the way the dark grey coat fit on Raymond so perfectly. So much more perfectly then when he’d first tried it on. And then it began to come back to the doorman, slowly, but surely. Recalling the sagging, hanging shoulders of the coat; the baggy way it fit his body and waistline. And the rest… the rest of the story behind the coat Raymond wore… that was left to the doorman’s imagination and whatever he could bring to the surface of his mind.

Chapter 5

Late that night, after the nightclub had closed, Raymond got in his car and left for home, never taking notice of the lone car behind him, following him all the way north, down Michigan Avenue, on his way to Lake Shore Drive. He didn’t realize because for one thing, he’d never been followed before and never had occasion to experience such a thing and for another, he was tired, drunk and thinking about getting into bed. Pulling the blinds closed in his bedroom and sleeping the morning away seemed to be the best option available to him at the time and was just about all that filled his mind, were it not for a few of the nagging suggestions his volatile imagination made on itself…
“What a night,” said Joe, as the Oldsmobile’s big eight cylinder engine gathered momentum and speed, passing Oak Street - famous for it’s beach front access - then Bellevue Place, and Cedar and so on, through the city. And Raymond never looked back. Never thought of the possibility that someone might be watching... “Man that babe can really sing,” added Joe, in Raymond’s mind’s ear. “Really belts out a tune, don’t she?” he continued, so impressed by Vicky’s performance.
“Hold on a minute,” remarked Raymond, just as the car was passing the green traffic light at Division Street. “Let me get this straight now. You mean… you like her?”
“Well, I…” said Joe, fumbling for the right words to say. “She has a lotta talent Ray. Whattaya want me ta say?”
“But, you know she’s really a…”
“Yeah, I know. I’d have’ta know by now, wouldn’t I?”
“And you don’t care?”
“Hell Ray,” continued Joe, about to give additional thought and meaning to what he had in mind to say – a rare seen quality in Joe, who is - or was rather - a very masculine, unemotional type and one who’d endured one of America’s most terrible conflicts… World War ll. “You know me, I been around the block. I’ve seen a lot. Alotta things you wouldn’t wanna see, either. So ya know what I think? Who cares? That’s what I think. Who cares? If that’s what Vicky wants outta life, then so be it. Who am I ta pass judgment on her, or anyone for that matter?”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” replied Guy, all in Raymond’s mind of course. “You’re sounding very well-adjusted.”
“Then try this on for size Buster… live an let live; ta each his own; whatever floats yer boat, I got a million of ‘em.”
“Why now?” asked Dan, who’d been quiet up until now as the big car turned right into Sheridan Road, getting closer to Raymond’s apartment. “Why the sermon? What makes tonight any different?”
“Oh, I been think’in lately,” said Joe, in a moment of reflection.
“Sure,” interrupted Lorin angrily. “Like none of the rest of us have anything to say? You think you’re the only one who does any thinking? Look who’s talking… Mr. Self-realization.”
“Quit fighting already!” shouted Raymond, in an abrupt outburst of frustration - quieting the voices in his head for the time being, but still incapable of getting to the root of his problem without the aid of modern, antipsychotic drugs. “I can’t drive with you guys arguing all the time. You’re making me crazy.” But Raymond didn’t have long to complain as the car steadily approached the corner of Sheridan and Granville, giving closure to the twisted debate he helplessly self-fabricated and for now, bringing his journey to an end. What he did not know, as he got out of the car and looked up at his own second floor apartment, was that he was being carefully observed and therefore stood without inhibition, staring up at the table lamp he’d left on by mistake, wondering to himself who had left it on. “That’s funny,” he said out loud. “I don’t remember leaving a light on. Who could’ve left it on?”
“Why do we have’ta keep go’in through this?” complained Joe. “You know it couldn’ta been one a us. You’re the only one with legs. Why would’ya keep blam’in us for your own mistake?”
“Sorry,” muttered Raymond. “I’m tired. I need to get in bed.”
“Geez,” added a disgruntled Joe, this time true to his character. But as Raymond slowly let go of his complaint and began climbing the stair on the way up to his apartment, the sensation or feeling that eyes were on him came out in the form of personality conflict and hallucination, as was usually the case at a time like this…
“Hold on a minute,” remarked Lorin, knowing that something was wrong, but exactly what, he couldn’t say.
“What now?” asked Joe. “Let ‘im get in bed already.”
“I can’t say for sure,” returned Lorin. “It’s just a feeling I have. The kind that you get when someone’s watching you… you know what I mean?”
“You’re making us paranoid,” said Guy, taking the initiative to speak on everyone’s behalf. “Just let Raymond go to bed. Don’t worry Ray,” continued Guy, in a soothing manner that he alone - among the rest of Raymond’s imaginary companions - had seemed to master. “Everything will look brighter in the morning.”
“I hope you’re right,” answered Lorin, as Raymond continued his ascent up the stairway and on, in the direction of his apartment. But as Raymond groped through his right front pocket, searching for his key, a man emerged from a dark colored sedan – as Lorin had forewarned – and walked from across the street on his way to Raymond’s apartment, attracted to the table lamp mistakenly left on.
Staring upward - observing the shapes in the window that he thought he saw - Richard couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d followed Raymond home that night out of the newly found and growing affection he felt for him, but upon recalling how well the old sport coat suddenly fit Raymond and how good it looked on him – without the wear and tear of passing months of abuse one would have expected – he was moved to the fact that Raymond was hiding something and his curiosity literally drove him miles from any destination of his own, straight to the whereabouts of a scene he never could have conceived of, in the wisdom of any, or all of his years.
“Am I see’in things?” He said aloud to himself. “Are those pumpkins in that window or what? This ain’t Halloween.” But as Richard moved his hand to his shirt pocket – looking for the glasses he needed to see objects in the distance – something else was going on in Raymond’s apartment that would indeed, alter the appearance of things.
“Where are you guys hiding, anyway?” asked Raymond, as he walked into the middle of his living room. And wondering where he’d last placed the four severed heads of his friends, he again raised the question aloud so that one of them – in his poor mind at least – might tell him and resolve the matter.
“Where do ya think?” asked Joe sarcastically.
“I don’t know?” replied Raymond, losing patience. “If I knew, I wouldn’t need to ask.”
“Over here Ray,” answered Guy, always helpful at times like this - of stress and need. “We’re on the window sill - remember now? You put us here so we could watch life go by, remember? It was your idea. You wanted to give us something to look at while you were gone.”
“Okay, now I remember,” remarked Raymond, picking up the large dinner platter whereupon sat the four, meticulously varnished heads of his friends. And once transferred to the dinning room table, Raymond took the time to adjust the Chicago Cubs baseball cap Guy had on, which had somehow been tilted from position. But the French beret that Joe preferred was flawlessly in place and served nicely to subdue his rugged good looks. “There you are Guy,” remarked Raymond, taking a step back to admire and get a better look at his own hideous, but noteworthy handiwork. And all the while Raymond looked on at the four, shiny victims of fate, Richard was outside on the sidewalk below, at last adjusting his glasses to his face and when he looked again at the arrangement of severed heads in Raymond’s window, they had vanished. Only shock and paranoia had been left in their place - a sorry exchange for an even sorrier crime.
“Why don’t you get in bed now Ray,” said Guy. “Thanks for fixing my hat, but you’re looking really pooped.”
“That’s exactly how I feel Guy,” replied Raymond, as a very confused doorman returned to his car. And seizing the opportunity, Richard turned one last time in the direction of Raymond’s second floor window. Watching as Raymond walked into the light of the lamp, he recognized the outline of Raymond’s features in the distance, paying careful attention as the bright electric light changed suddenly to complete darkness with a simple turn of a switch. A delicate maneuver made by one so delicate, in a world so filled with indelicacy.

As the minute and hour hands merged – one over the other – on the clock which rested on his nightstand, Raymond was surprised to be awakened by the unforgiving ring of his telephone. Awkwardly, he wrested it from its nearby position, placed it to his ear and gave the same, predictable response which everyone in the world who’s ever spoken on such a device has become so enormously familiar with… “Hello?”
“Hi Raymond, it’s me.”
“Oh Vicky, hey, how are you?”
“Fine,” she predictably said. “I was just wondering… are you busy now?”
“Ahh,” mumbled Raymond, guessing at the time of day. “What time is it? I was sleeping.”
“Time to get up sleepyhead,” replied Vicky. “It’s past noon Raymond. Listen,” she continued, with growing enthusiasm in her voice. “I’m coming over to meet your friends.”
“Oh, you are?”
“Yes, what’s wrong with that? Now what should I bring? Do they care for wine at all? How about a nice red table wine and we can have a picnic at the lake? You’re just a stone’s throw from the beach there, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but…” started Raymond, worried about the type of impression his housekeeping and living arrangement might make on his newfound soul mate.
“Don’t say another word,” insisted Vicky, determined to meet the friends Raymond kept, even though she had no way of knowing the true nature of the way in which he ‘kept’ them... as lifeless and inanimate heads. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” But before Raymond could think of any good excuse for her not to come over, she had already made the decision for him and hung up the phone in haste.
“The place is a mess,” complained Raymond aloud, after putting down the phone. “I haven’t bothered cleaning in God knows how long and she’s on her way over… now what?”
“Helluva wake up call,” said Joe, in Raymond’s schizophrenic mind. “Better move fast, you got a lot ta do.”
“Yeah,” answered Raymond, eager to comply and continue in the smoothly running relationship he was so far enjoying with Vicky. “Maybe I should vacuum, huh?”
“Vacuum!” repeated Dan. “You’re crazy. You’ve got four human heads on a table and a refrigerator stocked with human flesh and you’re worried about vacuuming. If I only had legs, I’d be outta here so fast It’d make your head spin.”
“Ix-nay on the spin-nay bud,” remarked Joe, exercising his ability – or lack of it - for speaking pig Latin. “I may be just a head, but I got feel’ins too ya know.”
“Never mind all that Ray,” interrupted Lorin - realizing there was a much more serious problem at hand then the trifling issue of Joe’s superficial vanity. “Dan’s right. You’ve gotta either put the heads back in the fridge with the rest a your wacko stash, or make up some last minute excuse why she can’t come in.”
“That’s right,” agreed Dan. “In fact,” he continued, in a most contemplative mood. “Why don’tcha do both.”
“Both?” replied Raymond. “You guys are moving too fast. Slow it down a little, I’m confused.”
“I mean,” said Dan, feeling as though he’d better try getting through to Raymond for his own good. “Tell her we’re not home, or we’re all throwing our guts up with the flu and if that doesn’t work, hide the heads in the fridge and make absolutely sure she never opens it… understand?”
“I suppose,” acknowledged Raymond, but even as he stood in pensive calm – looking thoughtful and capable in the light of his friends help – the doorbell began to ring, telling him that someone was downstairs in the vestibule, waiting to come up.
“Quickly Ray,” exclaimed Guy. “Stuff us all in the fridge while there’s still time… hurry!” But reacting quickly at a stressful time was not one of Raymond’s better qualities and as he fussed and panicked, the person downstairs in the vestibule grew more and more weary of getting no response at all.
Picking up the big tray in which all four heads sat, Raymond clumsily lifted it and began walking toward the kitchen when suddenly – never noticing the PF-Flyer gym shoe in his path – he tripped, dropping all four heads very ungracefully, to the floor. “Now ya did it,” accused Joe, angered at the thought of having his own head fall and roll around on the unkempt floor of Raymond’s living room. “Ya tripped over yer own shoe.”
“No I didn’t,” responded Raymond with like anger.
“What are ya talk’in about?” answered Joe. “Then what are we do’in on the floor?”
“It wasn’t my shoe, it was yours.”
“Now how am I supposed ta wear shoes, if I ain’t got feet?” asked Joe, quite within reason. “Why do we have’ta go through this all the time?”
“All I know is…” began Raymond, as he rose to his feet and reassembled the heads on the serving tray. “That’s a size nine and I’m an eight an a half. There’s no way it’s my shoe.” But in the course of their bickering, no one had heard footsteps approaching the apartment door, and their petty squabble became an uncomfortable silence when all at once, Raymond heard a very light and feminine knocking coming from the front door, accompanied by just such a voice…
“Raymond,” Vicky announced – softly and politely - never having been to Raymond’s apartment before. “Are you there? Open the door.”
“I’m here,” he responded, but not quite loud enough for her to hear through the solid oak door. And with no other warning, the handle of Raymond’s apartment door began to turn.
“Well hello there,” said Vicky from the threshold of the open door - bags of groceries in both of her arms. “Is that your idea of decorating?” she asked, referring to the four decapitated heads Raymond believed to be his ‘friends’. “Are they real?”
“They’re my… my friends,” replied Raymond nervously. “How’d you get in?”
“One of your nice neighbors held the door open for me,” she answered, laying down her groceries on the nearest table. “Not exactly what I’d call, ‘live wires’ are they?” she added, referring again to Raymond’s peculiar friends. “Do you mind if I ask how you acquired them? They didn’t just fall from a tree like apples, did they?”
“No, I suppose not. But, they’re here… with me now. We all… get along pretty well,” said Raymond, adjusting Guy’s baseball cap as he set them next to Vicky’s groceries.
“Well…” began Vicky, searching for a moment to find the right words… words which did not come very easily to her, but without much regard to the gravity of Raymond’s situation, she remarked... “That’s a pretty tough act to follow. What do we do for an encore? You don’t talk to them, do you?” she asked, wondering all the more about Raymond’s state of mind, but never seriously considering the possibility of turning around to leave. She had grown much too fond of him to leave now, over a few severed heads. “Never mind Raymond,” she continued, nonchalantly. “You don’t have to answer me right now. Why don’t we just make lunch like we had planned and go to the beach. “

Chapter 6
The small sail boats in the lake were anonymous but in particular, beautiful. The varied colors of their sails were a striking foreground to the huge swathe of background blue and white shapeless puffs of clouds above and as Raymond and Vicky sat ripping shreds of fried chicken away from bone and gristle – enjoying their outdoor lunch – time seemed almost to stand still; as a landscape painting, or a photograph from a camera might suggest.
A gentle summer breeze together with a view that imperceptibly drifted had inadvertently become the perfect background to a seemingly perfect coupling of appeal and personality and as the picnic ran its course, the two sat contentedly on a beach blanket looking on as life passed gloriously before them. While at last, leaning back in the warm contours made by their bodies in the sand, they blissfully fell asleep - without a care in the world - like babies in wistful cradles.
Upon waking – after an hour or so had passed and the bodily process of sleep had stolen from them whatever time it could – Vicky and Raymond couldn’t help but notice the different people who idly walked by, and who were usually in good humor. After a long Chicago winter, the lakefront beaches were integral to rejuvenating energy and vigor, but to achieve the same results, different people did employ different means. Some – like Raymond and Vicky fell hypnotically asleep to the feel of a warm gentle breeze and the sound of small waves slowly loosing their energy to the sandy shore they rolled into. But some – the one’s who couldn’t get enough of the sights, sounds and smells – these were the ones who swam in and out of the water and patrolled the light beige sand for tiny shells and whatever else might be taken away in fond remembrance of the day, preserving its memory. And these were the ones who caught the attention of Vicky and Raymond, who were by now, fully awake and like cats with wide open eyes following birds, they detected any motion they could until it registered, cueing such animal instincts that had preserved their species - and the likes of which - for millions of sanguinary years.
“Hi there,” said a girl who had twice before, casually walked by – acknowledging how pretty Vicky was and how unusual but appealing looking Raymond appeared, sitting there languid yet attentive in the sand. “You two look so content sitting there,” she continued to remark. “Like you were made for each other. My name is Anechka, but my friends call me Ann. I’m from Russia,” she said - very aptly and in excellent English - placing her hands on her hips for emphasis. But suddenly and without warning, Vicky turned to Raymond and honestly expressed what she’d been indulging her mind in for the past few minutes… “Honey,” she began, very matter-of-factly. “Do you think we could?” And with no more need for any further explanation to one another, they quietly did.

Back at Raymond’s apartment, spirits were high. Vicky sat comfortably at Raymond’s dining room table, gently combing out tiny knots in Ann’s hair while Raymond busied himself with what one might call – more practical matters… separating prime cuts of meat from those that he considered only mediocre and completely discarding many organs and entrails which did little for his taste palette. Similar to a jungle beast, he planned to bury all those parts which he did not favor – such as the heart; lungs; kidneys and so on, but he did take pleasure in consuming the liver, which he sometimes ate like any other broiled piece of meat, or turned into a delicious pate, depending of course on his culinary desire at the moment.
As both of their tasks came to a close, it was soon time for Vicky to add a protective coat of varnish to the freshly severed head she so lovingly cared for and without much in the way of surface area to cover, it wasn’t long before the job was complete and the morbid body part lay neatly out to dry in the warm summer breeze that circulated throughout the room. “What happens next?” asked Vicky quite prophetically, as the varnish she painted and daubed on slowly transformed from a sticky wet state to a lasting, dry, shiny gloss.
“Whadda you mean?” returned Raymond, looking a little perplexed as he turned to meet Vicky’s radiant, green eyes.
“I don’t know?” she murmured in reply. “I guess what I’m asking is… what do we do for an encore? Every repeat performance could cost us another life sentence, but I feel like I finally found myself… do you know what I mean? I think I like this even more then performing.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” replied Raymond, an accomplished serial killer who was by now, exceedingly qualified and able to speak from years of experience and wisdom. “A lot of people find themselves sooner or later, don’t you think? It just takes some a little longer then others. All those people who keep searching and don’t give up,” he wisely remarked. “They’re the lucky ones. We don’t just have long lasting works of art here, we’ve got friends for life,” he continued, referring - with a wave of his hands - to any and all of the severed heads on display before them. “Has Ann spoken to you yet?” he asked innocently.
“No. Why? How could she? She’s dead.”
“You’ll see,” said Raymond. “It’s all up here,” he went on, pointing a forefinger to his own head to illustrate his meaning. “It’s all just a state of mind,” he continued, even more emphatically then before, holding Vicky firmly by both of her slender arms. “You’ll see. But first, we’ve gotta eat dinner. Aren’t you hungry after all that work?”
“Sure,” she replied, her character and sensuality wonderfully enhanced by her shapely torso and perfect breasts – only beguiled by the noticeable and growing bulge in her tight, contour fitting elastic pants. “But dinner wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she added, taking Raymond by his forearm to draw his body more closely to hers.
“Let me guess,” he said, as any adult would have known Vicky’s obvious intentions. “But what about supper… I didn’t do all that work in the tub for nothing, did I?”
“It’ll wait. Some things just have an order of precedence.”
“Things like what?”
“Like me.”

That night at the club, Raymond sat alone as he usually did in a booth far removed from the stage. That side of his personality which uninvolved itself from any direct social contact - longing to avoid the attention of others - was nearly the complete opposite of Vicky’s. But that separation, or difference in them seemed only to serve as another purpose – bonding them ever more closely - as the pair together became in the process a more complete organism and what one did not care for or was repelled by, the other only reveled in, thus creating a unity of opposites which neither could deny. Even in this opposition, they felt attraction, as the opposite poles of a magnet force - this difference only served them a better more suitable fit to the contours of mind and body… a resulting consequence of human connectivity and an adhesive to many a successful relationship.
In time for Vicky’s performance, Raymond nursed a scotch and soda in his right hand, watching the ice cubes in his glass swing around and around along the outer circumference, but as lights turned low and the band began to play; ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’, Raymond’s daydream met a sudden end when Joe openly remarked, “That’s for sure.”
“What’s for sure?” asked Raymond. “What now?”
“I don’t get around much anymore… whaddaya think I meant? Hey,” continued Joe, as inquisitive as ever. “Whatever happened ta Ann?”
“You were there,” replied Raymond. “You should know.”
“Naw, I missed it. I fell asleep.”
“If you really need to know, I let Vicky use the bag from my bowling ball and Ann went home in that.”
“So that’s that?” answered Joe, wondering - with good reason - to what end Anechka, a lovely young Russian girl on vacation had come to.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Raymond. “It’s a good thing. Vicky has someone to keep her company now. Why would you try to make something negative out of it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Bad habit I guess.” But neither Joe, or anyone else Raymond considered his friend had much time to reflect on Anechka’s life span – however long or short it may have been - as Richard, who’d been watching Raymond from his post at the door, came walking over, nearly in sync to the new song Vicky had just begun… ‘You Belong To Me’, once recorded by the late Patsy Cline.
‘See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle
Just remember darlin' all the while
You belong to me…’
But in the dark – as Raymond’s booth was one of the most secluded in the club – Vicky’s watchful eyes lost track of the two men and although mindful of what may or may not have been happening between them, she closed the song just as self-assured as she’d begun…
‘Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember til you're home again
You belong to me’
And in coming to the last line of the last verse, she quickly replaced the microphone she was holding to its stand, gestured to the bandleader to take a break and walked swiftly off the stage, searching - inherent to her nature - like any other stealthy predator, with all her keen senses and to the rhythm of her strongly beating heart.
Attracted by the flicker of a newly lit cigarette, she walked toward it to find Richard seated closely on the same side of the booth Raymond occupied, his arm gently draped over Raymond’s slightly built frame - free from care or worldly obligation. And in a sudden, rapid response to her emotions, Vicky couldn’t help but exclaim, “Raymond!”
“Vicky!” he shouted impulsively in return, very much out of character for him, but shocked by the course of events. And in jumping to his feet, Raymond had inadvertently tossed Richard’s arm from his shoulders, startling even the cool headed bouncer into a mild state of alarm. “What? What’s the matter?” he went on to say, questioning her wild behavior.
“I’m not blind,” she continued excitedly. “I can see what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on,” said Raymond, sincerely believing that nothing emotional had passed between himself and the doorman. “Why don’t you sit down,” he said, feeling the sudden pressure of many watchful eyes in the crowd around them. “You’re m-making me nervous,” he added, stuttering and sitting back down, taking hold of his unfinished drink as though it were a life preserver thrown to a drowning man. “Wow,” muttered Raymond, back to speaking in the quiet, low tones which came natural to him. “What are you so mad about? Me and Richard were just sitting here talking.”
“I saw his arm around you, Raymond. What was that supposed to mean?”
“He’s my friend,” returned Raymond with meaning, having been through very few lasting friendships in his lifetime. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”
“What kind of friend puts their arm around you?” she replied, breaking out into tears. “I put my arm around you, don’t I?” she continued, glaring at Richard, who was by now the most uncomfortable looking person in the nightclub. “Is that all I am to you?” she asked imploringly, clinging to her resolve. “…a friend?”
“I didn’t mean to start all this,” interjected the doorman, quite apologetically. “Honestly… if I knew this was going to happen…”
“You what?” asked Vicky. “You wouldn’t have sat there hugging him?”
“It’s time for me to go,” explained Richard, thinking that by removing himself from the scene, Vicky might find it easier to calm down, but as he was leaving, his mind began to drift from an amiable to a more practicable concern and curiosity got the better of him…. “There’s just one thing I wanted to ask while I remember,” he began, focusing his attention once again on Raymond, even in the midst of Vicky’s anger. “I gotta tell you Raymond, the strangest thing happened to me when I… l, followed you home and I… couldn’t help looking up into your window. The light was on.”
“What?” asked Raymond in response, oblivious to the direction of Richard’s speculation, but curious himself as to why he’d been followed. “Why were you looking into my window? I don’t get it.”
“Just curious, thinking about you, that’s all. I didn’t mean to be nosy. It’s just that, when I looked up into your window, I thought I saw pumpkins or something. There was just, one flashing moment there, but they looked a lot like…”
“Like what?” asked Vicky nervously, “What did they look like?”
“He knows Raymond,” interrupted Lorin, in Raymond’s mind. But to Raymond, the voice was like any other.
“Yeah, this don’t sound good Ray,” remarked Joe, who agreed with Lorin only on rare occasions.
“What?” asked Raymond aloud, answering the voices in his mind that he thought he heard, “what are you talking about?”
“Yes,” inquired Vicky, feeling the urgent and absolute need to probe Richard for information. “What is it you thought you saw?” she asked, her anger having been displaced by a growing curiosity – at least for the time being.
“Well… maybe I’m go’in nuts. Maybe I was just imagining things, but I thought I saw a bunch a heads in your window.”
“Heads!” replied Vicky, as Raymond looked down at the surface of the table in embarrassment. “Absurd!”
“Yeah, see,” continued the doorman. “It’s probably just my eyes play’in tricks on me. You know, I need glasses,” he said, simultaneously pulling them from one of his pockets and putting them on as he rose from the table. “I just don’t like ta wear ‘em, that’s all. They make me look older, don’t they?”
“No, I don’t think so,” added Raymond, unable to contain himself. “I think they make you look smart.”
“You think so?” asked the imposing, yet vain doorman, smiling and leaning closer to Raymond as he spoke - as Raymond had momentarily become a source of confidence and welcome self-esteem. “Nobody ever told me that before.”
“It’s true,” continued Raymond, returning the smile.
“I’m so glad you like him with his glasses on, you have no idea,” said Vicky mockingly, interrupting the conversation between the two men before it could gather momentum and grow into something even more unbearable. “Don’t you have a job to do, or something, Richard?”
“Oh yeah, gee,” he said, appearing only mildly concerned – having to shift his attention away from Raymond and back again to the more mundane work world around them. “Can you believe it?” he went on to say. “For a minute there, I forgot I was at work. Oh well… back to the real world, right Ray?”
“Yep,” replied Raymond, with a well meaning smile. “Take care a yourself.”
“Hey,” returned the doorman, an accomplished, skilled practitioner in the arts of self-defense. “Don’t worry about me,” he added, striking a perfectly balanced fighting pose. “I can handle myself just fine.” But in the brief time it took Richard to return to his post, Vicky had already begun filling Raymond’s mind with suspicion - not so much guided by paranoia, as it was steeped in reality.
“He knows,” she said to Raymond, just as soon as Richard was no longer within hearing distance.
“Whaddaya mean, ‘he knows’? What does he know?”
“Honestly Raymond… you get me so frustrated sometimes. Isn’t it obvious to you yet? He’s seen the heads of your buddies in your window, that’s what he knows.”
“He said he thought they were pumpkins, remember? Besides,” Raymond continued to say, urged on by his positive feelings for Richard. “He can hardly see without those glasses of his. I don’t know what you’re so worried about.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m worried about… a lifetime in prison, that’s what. And you,” she began to say, carefully choosing her words as she spoke “…You of all people should know, your diet plan will be changing drastically if you go to jail. No more dining on those choice cuts of whatever, or whoever it is you like to keep in the fridge. Do you understand me Raymond? Am I coming in clear? I know you have trouble listening, but this you’ve got to hear. If you don’t take action, I will.”

That night when Vicky had finished her set, the band continued to play without her until night faded on into the early hours of the morning. But Raymond and his beautiful friend were anxious to leave and enjoy the rest of the night available to them, since neither one of them had to wake up in the morning at any specific time. All that inhibited their evening’s venture was the gently falling, warm rain, which had begun sometime around midnight and once it started, did not seem to want to end. Instead, it gave the uncanny impression that rain was falling everywhere and would continue to do so until whatever had caused it to begin had been somehow satisfied, but in what manner, or by what method, seemed to be a most puzzling problem, but one that Vicky and Raymond had inadvertently taken up to solve.
Holding hands under the overhanging roof, near the entrance of the club, Vicky and Raymond stared out into the deep void of night, losing themselves in the cover and protection it provided until the intermittent headlights from passing cars revealed their forms like heartless, cold statues that shed the dripping rainwater as monuments set upon a grave site. Withstanding the ravages of time in the only possible way… they stood devoid of the spirit or soul that would otherwise occupy the natural condition of human life.
Unsuspecting, Richard walked out into this same great, dark vacuum as was occupied by the abominable, loving couple – Vicky and Raymond, and watched as they stolidly let go of each other’s hand. “I’ll get the car,” said Vicky softly, as she left the cover of the protruding roof edge and walked purposefully to where Raymond had parked. Then, almost predictably, Raymond turned his attention to the tall doorman and declared… “It’s a wonderful night, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what to say,” replied Richard, overwhelmed by a pervading aura of insentience. “I’m… feel’in at a loss for words right now, Ray. Know what I mean?” he said, as Raymond walked demurely toward him. “Rare for me, isn’t it? I usually have a lot to say…” he added, dropping his emotional guard for a moment, and allowing Raymond to come closer - breaking those natural physical barriers of personal space which are so common from one man to another. “What will Vicky say?” continued Richard, as he bent at the waist and pressed Raymond’s body to his own.
“What she won’t know, won’t hurt her,” replied Raymond, wrapping his arms around the much larger man’s torso in what would appear to be, a loving embrace, and it would have been, were it not for the authentic Nazi dagger Raymond stealthily manipulated behind Richard’s back. “Vicky wants me to do this,” he murmured, bringing the needle sharp point of the knife into position over Richard’s left kidney.
“She what?” asked Richard, just seconds away from pressing his lips to Raymond’s. “She wants you to kiss me? I don’t get it.”
“No… you’re right,” conceded Raymond, retracting the shiny steel blade as if it were the venomous tip of a scorpion’s tail. And unable to complete the gruesome task which had been laid out for him in vain, he also retracted his own two lips, which had come so close to something Vicky had never intended. “I can’t go on with this.”
“Good for you Ray,” said Guy, in Raymond’s very vulnerable mind. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Yeah Ray,” admitted Joe. “I thought you was about ta do the nasty back there, but you stopped yerself. Good for you.”
“I just don’t get you Raymond,” said the bouncer, frustrated and bewildered. “We could’ve had a good time, too… I just don’t get you,” he added, easily pushing Raymond’s slightly built frame from his own, acting more now as if he were controlling a crowd then urging on a lover’s embrace. “Why don’t you go back to your girlfriend? She must be waiting for you. Go on, go ahead.” But when Raymond finally did get back to his car, he did not find much in the way of consolation waiting for him.
“Is it over?” Vicky asked, seeming to pour out the last signs of nervous energy into starting the ignition of the big Oldsmobile.
“Yes,” said Raymond, without making any eye contact with his lover. “Take me home… I’m tired.”

Chapter 7

“So, you really think you can trust him, do you?”
“What do you mean?” asked Vicky, combing the last knots out of Anechka’s hair, after she had applied new make-up in all the right places, over much of the fresh varnish.
“Richard isn’t dead, he’s as live as you or I am… or rather, he’s as live as you are, anyway.”
“I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” answered Vicky.
“And why is that?”
“Because you don’t know Raymond like I do. He’d do anything for me… he loves me.”
“Time will tell how much he loves you. Time will tell,” repeated Ann, in Vicky’s very vulnerable mind. But just a few short miles away from what Vicky called home - above the restaurant Mattatoio’s - Raymond was hard at work dusting and neatening up his apartment, doing his best to maintain a sense of cleanliness for himself and his close friends. Opening one of the living room windows to let in fresh air added energy to his mood and after dusting the sill of the window, he gently laid the large serving platter his good friends inhabited upon it, hoping that they would enjoy the breeze and take in the excitement of the many moving cars and people passing below. The only thing wrong with his well meaning plan was that he barely noticed – very much in keeping with his nature – the inconvenient reality of what was happening outside, not very far from his window.
“Hey Ray,” said Joe very pragmatically, he himself unaware of what was going on outside. “My beret’s com’in loose again. Could’ya come over here an fix it?”
“Why sure Joe,” replied Raymond, “anything for a friend.” But as luck would have it and on Raymond’s short journey to the living room window, he tripped on his own shoe as he was at times, prone to do and as he was busy trying to keep himself from falling, he again blamed Joe and the others for leaving their shoes carelessly strewn around the room, when it fact, everyone knows that any decapitated head should never have to take the blame for wearing or leaving shoes around the house in the first place… a totally dysfunctional concept. But to make matters worse, as Raymond finally got to the window, he continued to stumble and instead of making the mild adjustment Joe had requested, he only succeeded in fully knocking him from his resting spot, causing him to tumble out of the window and spin rapidly out of control to the sidewalk beneath. This act of indiscretion may even have turned out okay, were it not for the policeman downstairs handing out parking tickets… a devoted public servant who couldn’t help but notice the entire odd event.
“Joe!” yelled Raymond from above. “Are you okay? Speak to me…” But Joe was speechless and Raymond’s unusual lifestyle had – in all probability – come to its calamitous end. After all, people just don’t entertain decapitated heads in hospital prisons… or do they?