Chain Male (tentative title) a new short story

Timothy Allen Johnston was a conman, not a very respectable career and not one he chose, it happened out of necessity. He was thrown out of his house when he was 15 and had to learn how to fend for himself. He was on the streets because none of his friends were in any position to help. He listened to punk rock music and had a bad attitude, he didn’t ask for help because he didn’t want it. His parents threw him out. Now, every adult was in support of them, in his eyes. He hit streets running, full of spite, anger and eventually found other kids like him and with the same attitude.

 They hustled people all day for food and other necessities. Panhandling only really pays when you’re disabled or are a veteran. So they got creative and got a broken radio out of the trash. One of them would carry it down the street like it was together bump into the back of someone, throw the radio down and claim they broke it. If the hustle didn’t work and the mark wasn’t going to pony up the cash the others would slowly surround them carrying chains and knives. They worked like a pride of lions, precise and quick. If they had to surround them they usually gave up their whole wallet in fear. They called their crew the Punk Rock Alley Kids. P-R-A-K. And they were taggers.

They would descend on a spot as a group and they would leave behind a street mural, put up clandestinely with spray paint. Most crews just put up their blocks but six feet tall. P-R-A-K wasn’t enough for these kids they had one guy they called Bezerk who could really paint with shadow and light and used relevant subject matter to the neighborhood. They picked spots that would be seen so they could get “fame” but not so open that they get busted. P-R-A-K heard of a old tagger who now didn’t tag his name but put up murals of the Virgin Mary. At train stations, bus stops, always city or county property never on private property. PRAK operated under the same rules. But there were tagging crews who tag-banged, it’s when they go after other crews and shoot at them or want to fight. That’s when Tim first fired a gun. The crew had to protect themselves and while Bezerk worked his magic with paint, Tim had his back with a .38.

But that was kids stuff and eventually they outgrew the street life. Bezerk moved in with his Grandma. And Tim had nowhere to go so he grew into a predator. He would befriend total strangers from the library or the park. He would make up some kind of story like his girlfriend left him and they were on vacation or he can’t go home because his roommate has a drug problem, some kind of story usually tailored for the mark. He only approach soft marks, easily taken advantage of. 

He would win over their trust and get in their house. He would decide how long he would stay and what, if anything, that he wanted to take. Then in the morning he’d either weasel his way into their hearts, if possible, but at least their homes or work them over for some money at least and hopefully some clothes, if he was leaving. He usually found women, the men who invited him home always wanted something else. Usually middle-aged women whom have been around the block with a husband they are divorced from. Lonely, needy and thinking that they are too smart to be taken, Tim moves in.

Tim has always been alone, he has no friends and nobody really knows him. He’s never had a job or a place of his own. He’s never been honest with anyone and now he has keys to three different residences of three different women. He’s 27 years old and playing his game. He’s never thought someone else would be playing, too.

First there’s Lindsay, a pale chubby white woman whom he has wrapped around his finger and who doesn’t expect much in return. A little sex goes a long way. She has an apartment on the west side among neighborhoods of million dollar homes, it was quite out of place. It sat next door to the only market around, where drivers passing through would stop for coffee on the way to work and the wealthy alcoholics would buy booze, thinking that if they shopped their, that nobody would know. He told her that he was a long haul trucker and he pulled his truck into a nearby town and he would hitchhike to her neighborhood and go to her apartment when he came to town. She had been married before to some degenerate who put hands on her whenever she didn’t obey. For Tim, she never had to obey, when they were together, it was whatever she wanted to do. Timothy knew how to treat a woman, to get what he wanted. And he poured it on.

“You look beautiful, Jill, why don’t we go out tonight.” Tim said.

“Oh, Thank you,” Jill says shyly, “Where do you want to go?” Jill asked.

“Your choice, my dear, and cost is not an issue, I just dropped off a load, I got some money.” Tim would say, completely fabricating the story. He didn’t drop off a load but came from another woman’s house.

“Thank you, you always treat me so well.” an oblivious Jill responds.

“That’s because I love you.” Tim said not even knowing what the word means much less what it implies to a woman. He was bullshitting her to the Nth degree as she was lapping it up like a starving dog. That wasn’t far from the truth, she was starving, for attention, and those women were like sitting ducks for Tim. Tim would take her out for a nice dinner and actually listen to her talk about girlfriends she used to have. Now she has none, since she moved into this apartment. It was out of her neighborhood but she wanted to get out of there. She grew up in and lived there all her life, but she had a possessive boyfriend who made fun of her because she needed someone to take care of her. Well, she was showing him, all of them, that she could take care of herself. Her parents had both died 10 years ago in a car accident. She bailed one day after she found the apartment that she told no one about. She just up and left never to come back, in her mind, at least. She had something to prove to the neighborhood but to herself also. She was still in morning from her parent’s death, she had a problem letting go, and latching on to comfort due to it. She had had a boyfriend a year since their death. She showed signs of Clinical Depression but was never diagnosed.

And then there was Dana. Tim didn’t know what nationality she was but she had olive skin and green eyes and that’s all he really saw. He was bowled over by her obvious belief that she knew men. She was a clerk at a bookstore and was introverted and a bookworm. She would work all day stocking shelves full of everything from The Book of Virtues to For Whom the Bell Tolls then come home and read tawdry romance novels. They were like television to her, she didn’t own one of those, and she needed her nightly fix. And that’s what they were, a fix for the hole that her ex-husband left. He left when she wouldn’t perform certain sexual acts that he knew she didn’t like before they were married. Did he really think marriage would change that? Well, it didn’t so after a long and loud fight, their first, he called her prude and took off. She cried but recovered quickly, that’s when she realized she was in a marriage without love. That scared her. She didn’t know how she let herself go through with the whole planning and executing a wedding without loving the man, or not knowing that she did not love him. She promised herself she would be more careful next time. Tim had to work on her, so he  started frequenting the bookstore. He’d show her how much she knew about men. He got to know her by prying open that broken heart by dropping his scant literary knowledge at just the right time in the conversation for him to be complimenting her and making himself look intelligent. It took a lot of patience, but Tim developed that long ago. After getting closer to her, enough to read her, he knew that she went home at night and read. She eventually told him that she read romance novels, that’s when he knew that she had a weak spot, that she was lonely and probably only had cats to comfort her. And they did a good job, but the thing about people, Tim learned, is that they almost always want human companionship unless they’re on drugs. And when he got in Dana home he found that she wanted it but put up a wall so people wouldn’t get in. But Tim found the secret door that even Dana didn’t know she had. When he came along, the romance novels stopped and Tim knew just want all of his marks wanted.

“Dana, want to go for a walk?” Tim asks.

“Yeah, sure, let me just grab my keys,” Dana says as she reaches over a stack of reference books on the dining room table, “where do you wanna go?”

“Down to the park and back, how’s that?” Tim asks knowing the answer.

“That would be nice.” Dana says smiling, in her leatard. Dana  was only 5’2” and almost looked like a little girl but she didn’t carry herself like a little girl but all that confidence she appears to have is all a lie. And she didn’t act like she knew all about men around Tim.

And last, but most certainly not least, there was Carmen she was a petite little Latina he met at a coffee house while in line for his double espresso machiato, she was getting a cup a chamomile tea.  They bumped into each other then began chatting, they took a table and talked more and then Tim got to the point.

“Hey, listen, I’d really like to talk to you more, is your place close?” Tim asks a question and imposes himself with one sentence.

“Sure, it’s just around the corner, do you want to come over?” Carmen asks. Tim was blown away, he’s never been invited into someone’s home. They finished their drinks then Carmen offered to drive, as if Tim had a car, and he accepted. She drove a red sports car, one that Tim didn’t know the name of. She had a condo that she paid for by herself. She said that she worked in a bank, before Tim could get any stupid ideas, she offered him a drink,

“Sure, Vodka on the rocks, thanks.” Tim said.

“So, do you like music,” Carmen was already on her way to the stereo.

“She put some Jimi Hendrix, the song “Angel” and started grooving with the music. She lit incense when Manic Depression came on. “Tell the truth Jimi!” she says as if he’s in the corner playing the blues. Tim was in awe of this petite little Latina he saw as a weak little flower, she was not. He could still manipulate her but it would take methods that he would have to develop on the fly. And he didn’t know what he wanted from her whether it be monitary or otherwise, but he did know that he was genuinely attracted to her. She drew him in, it was magical, he was at her mercy and didn’t even know it, yet. They sat and drank late into the night. He didn’t have to pry to get to know her , she was very upfront. Tim sensed that she needed a friend and he was, of course, willing. But he was getting a little drunk and didn’t notice that Carmen was.

“You sure hold your liquor good, I mean, for a woman.” Tim said not realizing what sexist was nor that he just stepped right in it’s rose bed. Carmen did and she was holding her liquor so well because she wasn’t actually drinking. She was drinking 7 up saying it was a gin and tonic.

“Yeah, well,” ignoring the sexist remark, “for a woman, I drink by myself a lot.” Carmen lies like a cheap rug. Just what Tim thought, she needed a friend.

 “I couldn’t possibly walk home right now, nor can you drive with all that alcohol on your breath, do you mind if I sleep on your couch just for the night?” Tim was such a good conman he could do it drunk, actually he was a little too aggressive when drunk and has messed up a couple times and slept at the bus station because of it.

“Yeah sure, we can’t have you getting arrested.” Carmen said with a smirk that Tim didn’t catch and wouldn’t understand if he did. Carmen went and took a shower leaving him alone in her house, he could have stole the TV and everything else, although the TV looked dusty like it had never been used. Tim surmised that she did not spend a lot of time at home. He sat on the couch and watched his world slightly spin in front of him. He didn’t worry about hangovers, he had a bag of cross-top pills. They are like speed and they put that hangover to rest immediately, the headache might linger a bit but the physical nastiness and inability to get off your ass go in about 30 minutes. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on head pads attached to the brown courduroy couch when Carmen came out of the hallway, white Cashere robe, hair up in terry cloth towel, face devoid of make up and still looked beautiful. ‘Holy shit’ Tim thought this woman takes care of herself. Not the usual mark he picks. He thought that maybe she would take care of him.

“Can you do a favor for me? Could you walk a package over to my Grandma’s house for me, she needs groceries but can’t leave the house so I bring her groceries once a week, but I can’t walk that far right now.” Carmen explains.

“Sure, I guess, it’s not a bomb or something, right.” Tim says with a chuckle. Carmen goes to the kitchen for a moment and comes up with a package wrapped in brown paper. Tim isn’t paying attention.

“OK, c’mere,” she hands him the package and he starts to walk away with it, “Oh, here.” She tosses him a key to the condo. “And do not make copies, I know every locksmith and they know me, if you know what I mean.” Tim didn’t know what she meant, but replied.

“Yeah, sure, no worries, but can my girlfriend come over if we don’t have sex.”

“Hele Keller could tell you haven’t been laid in a long time, don’t try to bullshit me.” Carmen replied holding herself back.  Tim turned red and felt powerless for once. A woman took his power away. She thought she had him figured out. He felt the need to conquer this one.

Next time they talked Tim tried to control her feelings with conversation about certain things like family love, sex. He felt powerful when he felt that he was controlling where peoples minds went. But with this the independent ones it’s a rush, Tim didn’t know why he got off on this but he did. Carmen was a little spit-fire, he thought, she was going to be fun to play with and fun to look at. He never pursued sex with women. They always found that attractive, he didn’t look at them like a piece of meat. What they didn’t realize is that he was looking at them like an ATM and a warm bed.  http:www.booksie.com/michaelkedik