We vacationed at Lake Demmon a lot.
That includes the Saturday I walked in on Mr. Stevenson and his wife in the garage.
I was outside; face-down on the edge of the dock, losing my guts, feeding the fish, after a hard night of drinking when I heard the whining noise of power tools.
We talked to him on Friday before we pulled away from the dock for drinking and paddle-boat racing. Said he and the wife were up to enjoy a quiet weekend before the cold came in. She smiled behind her wine and sunglasses.
We paddled out to the middle of the lake sober, came back cooler empty—all over the lines, and their dock was quiet. We raged on into the night, drunken swimming in forty degree water and a roaring fire, with no light or sound from their house.
I rolled over on my back and promised myself I’d never drink as much as I did last night again, again. Thought Stevenson’s working on one hell of a Saturday project. I held my hand up to the sun and looked over at his place, a nice spread, classy up top with a white cinder-block basement level garage. Saw him out on the weekends a few times with a baby blue speedboat, real eighties dress-up.
I never would have guessed a woodshop by the sound of his fucking buzzsaw. I stood up and figured that if the headache had to continue I could at least satisfy my curiosity. Neighbors are friendly here anyway, always checking in or inviting you over despite only seeing each other maybe two or three times a year.
I took the hill practically doubled over between heaves, felt like I had left a trail of my intestines all the way back to the dock, but when I got up to his place I leaned against the cold stone for relief.
I didn’t want to startle him or whatever, y’know cause him to lop his finger off or screw up his cut. Christ if he’s up this early on a Saturday it must be an Ark-worthy project. So I just peeked my head around the edge of the doorway craning my neck to get a good look at his gazebo, or rocking chair, or whatever the hell it was.
The first thing I noticed was that his apron was double knotted in the back, like he wasn’t planning on taking it off. The second was that he was standing there with his back to me in nothing but his double knotted apron, birthday suit, and boat shoes.
I pulled back around the corner of the garage.
I’m pretty open all around, but what the fuck kind of maniac woodworks in the nude?
Stevenson was always a little strange, but I never really held it against him. He seemed nice enough. He just had those flimsy square glasses and that too-wide smile, but I thought more or less he couldn’t really help that shit. There are tons of pretty people that end up being psychos; there have to be creepy-looking motherfuckers that are actually harmless.
I still hadn’t even caught a glimpse of what he was working on in the nude. I heard the saw spin-up again. I pressed my back and head up against the wall. I had come this far.
I wiped my forehead with my forearm, took a deep breath, and swung around the edging full-body this time, desperado-style, like I was going to march through saloon swinging double-doors ready for the ruckus.
I saw him pull down the saw with the same leisure of a sharp knife through a rare steak. I noticed the blood running from off the table and pooling around his feet when he slid a lump covered in hair the same color as Mrs. Stevenson’s down the table like a beer mug, and it lolloped off the edge and directly into the waiting trashcan with a dead-weight thud.
I would’ve thrown up if I thought I had anything left. I don’t remember making a noise. But maybe he just felt someone watching him because he turned around then, smiling at me, blood spattered, erection straining against his tight apron.
He smiled that smile you see in old movies when the creep chaperone is watching prepubescent girls bob for apples at the Halloween dance. Knowing that he’ll go home and sit on the toilet throttling himself to memories of the girl who is best with an open mouth and no hands.
He didn’t stop smiling and the only thing he said with a voice that seemed to leech right off the walls was,
“You were my first witness, you’re welcome.”
Reaching behind him he picked up a service .38, put it to his temple, and Pollock’d the white cinderblock with his brains.
That’s when everyone came running I guess.
I was turned away; vomiting the last of my stomach, sanity, and ability to sleep onto the grass for good.
Word Slurpee 