6:01 AM. Again.
R. Maxwell Beemer (Max) knew this because he had just sent his clock radio plunging off the top of the dresser at the other end of the bedroom. The alarm clock that had just rudely jolted him back to consciousness had become a projectile targeted on the offending radio. Two obnoxious birds had been dispatched with one stone.
Yesterday he had thrown the alarm clock and missed. Because of his poor aim the radio had blared to life right on schedule, forcing him to actually rise from the bed to stifle the strident rock-n-roll wake up call. Max had made it to work on time yesterday. On this suddenly quieter morning, however, he smugly snuggled back under the covers. Both of the offensive alarm devices lay quiet and inert on the carpet behind the dresser, along with the dead or alive spiders, dust bunnies, and lost socks.
Even though this routine had taken place nearly every day over the past few months, chances were good that both the radio and the alarm clock would survive to crash again yet another day. Both the radio and the clock were sheathed in a robust and resilient armor of duct tape, masking tape, electricians's tape, Super Glue, Elmer's glue, airplane glue, and other miscellaneous mucilage.
Most folks watched TV, read the paper, or sipped on a cool beer upon returning from work each evening,
R. Maxwell Beemer had become quite adept at small appliance repair.
A little after seven, Max erupted from the rack like a blast-off from Cape Canaveral. It was certain that without the inspiration provided by the specter of being late for the 17th time in one month, he would have been moving much more slowly at that time of day. He reasoned (very correctly) that bypassing the shower would put his job in greater jeopardy than merely being a bit tardy.
Hot spray harmonized with a tattoo of aqueous white noise against the fiberglass shower stall. The steamy drone of water luxuriously washed away twenty-four hours' accumulation of city grime and fallout, along with any lingering sense of urgency or fear of another late arrival at work. Working his head into a lather, Max made a mental inventory of possible excuses he could use to counter the inevitable interrogation.
Flat tire?
Dead battery?
Dead cat?
Dead grandmother?
Forgot badge?
Forgot keys?
Forgot gasoline?
Out of gasoline?
Spilled gasoline?
Spilled coffee?
Got lost?
Got mugged?
Got lucky?
"No way, José. Perhaps throwing myshelf upon the mershy...." Max mumbled through an amalgam of toothpaste and shaving cream. Little flecks of goo sputtered out of his mouth and onto the badly encrusted bathroom mirror.
A few minutes later, teeth brushed, hair combed, shoes tied, and face cut, he stumbled out past heaps of potential laundry in the hallway. Breakfast lay in wait just where dinner had been consumed the night before, on the coffee table. It was concealed in a large flat box nearly translucent with grease. Nestled in among a covey of empty twelve-ounce twist-offs were the four remaining slices.
Max flipped the box open and pried a chunk loose from the cardboard. His mind wandered as he happily munched away at the pizza parts. Each bite was sluiced down with noisy gulps of Diet Pepsi (necessary to obtain a good nutritional blend of cholesterol, grease, and caffeine).
Chewing and swallowing, he sagely contemplated the remaining slices. Their irregular, congealed surfaces looked as if they had been ground-zero in a micro-miniature nuclear holocaust. Tiny anchovy skeletons appeared to be the remnants of lilliputian battleships, wrenched apart and fused into a mass of sundry naval debris. Each slice of black olive marked the impact point of a conventional warhead. Mushroom caps, pepperoni, and Canadian bacon slices represented huge storage tanks in various degrees of meltdown. Who the hell knew what the pineapple chunks and cremated wads of sausage used to be?
On second appraisal, the entire scene could be a hefty meal that had been disgorged shortly after use by some crazed bulimic dieter.
Max decided that one slice would suffice for breaking the night's fast.
He snatched another can of Diet Pepsi from the fridge and jammed it into his jacket pocket. In a Pavlovian response reaction as he passed the coffee table, he snapped up one more slice of ground zero pizza. He shuffled out the front door.
Max became a commuter.
Anchovy bones between the teeth and an ice-cold cylinder of carbonated fluid in one's crotch seemed not to match his vision of the American dream. He had worked for the 'company' on and off for about two years. After somehow managing to establish a reputation as a whiz kid, he had been bumped up into positions of greater responsibility and autonomy. Eventually he had reached the point where no one seemed to understand or care what he was doing anymore. His boss was perfectly content in knowing that his boss would not be jumping down his throat, climbing on his back, stomping on his toes, etc., as long as Max was on the payroll.
What had started out as a part-time job, just a few hours a week, had become nearly full-time. The fringe benefits were something else altogether. Picking up a few unwanted spare parts for Manny promised to be his ticket to the big time. As far as Max could tell, it wasn't exactly illegal. After all, what was the harm in salvaging a few small items ultimately destined for the boneyard?
Traffic was light. Much lighter than usual, even though by now he was already at least two hours late. He swallowed the last dregs of his Pepsi. Two small cans certainly didn't match the desirable effect that could be produced by steamy-hot java.
Through a mental fog bank, Max reasoned that a few more minutes' delay would most certainly be less damaging than starting the day without at least one cup of coffee. 7-11 beckoned through the windshield and successfully diverted him from his beeline toward his place of employment.
Seemingly aeons later, he finally made it back on course. He swore that he'd never stop in there again. At least not until the store's policy of hiring the mentally handicapped for the morning shift was revised. His cup of lukewarm coffee had already been drained past the half-way mark.
"That bozo couldn't even speak English," he said to his coffee cup. "And that ring in his nose! What a weirdo!"
The Falcon swooped around the final curve in a hopping four-wheel drift. A high rate of speed combined with a low degree of control did have its place.
"What the hell. If the boss is watching he'll be impressed. Maybe an `A' for effort instead of a `F' for tardiness."
The main parking lot was coming into view. It was vacant, completely deserted.
About this time all of the pieces started clicking into place. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were respectively the 13th, 14th, 15th, and 16th days of lateness this month. Yesterday Max had been on time. Yesterday was Friday.
Today was...Saturday.
"Damn! Oh well. It's almost time for lunch, and the first two slices of ground zero pizza weren't that bad."
Tooling back in the general direction of home, Max fixated on the image of dispatching the remnants of last evening's supper and this morning's breakfast. Most certainly the final slices were destined to be washed down with something a little more substantial than bubbly cola-flavored lolly-water. As he turned a corner, that peaceful bit of anticipation was instantaneously put on hold, along with what little attention he had been paying to his driving.
There she was! On the sidewalk. A vision that must have been sent directly by his guardian angel. It was her! Again! The Jogger!
Ponytail of golden flax, sensuously bobbing from side to side in perfect syncopation with the leanest, most beautifully sculpted, athletic body that Max had ever seen. The mid-morning sun glistened on her smoothly tanned shoulders. Her tank top, nearly translucent with perspiration, did nothing but accentuate a very succulent and obviously braless torso--
Kah-whommp!
His neck, twisted completely over his right shoulder, had done more than tear his eyes away from the road. His girl-watching contortions had also pulled the steering wheel off-course. The Falcon had just bashed into the curb. A torrent of dashboard debris (sunglasses, matchbooks, candy, cigarettes, McFood wrappers, ashtray, cassette tapes, etc.) showered onto his lap from the impact.
He shrunk from humiliation, not only in the mental sense, but also in the physical sense. Under the influence of a savage fear-induced adrenaline rush, he didn't even consider stopping to retrieve the hubcap rolling down the gutter. A glance to the rear view mirror confirmed that he indeed had been noticed. Standing hands on hips and facing in the direction of his escape, the Jogger of Max's dreams was laughing her pretty head off.
"Man, I really need a date," he muttered as he scooped some of the fallen dashboard droppings from his lap. "Why in the hell did I have my alarm clock set this morning anyway?"
The answer was in his hand: an appointment card from Starling's Gentle Dental Clinic.
"Oh God! I'd rather have a root canal than face that guy this morning."
By the time he reached the dentist's office, the 1960's vintage Falcon coupe had started to overheat. Max was getting a bit warm himself, especially under the armpits. If it weren't for the sticky chocolate residue on the steering wheel, his sweaty palms would have lost control the last trip around the block.
This was circuit number six around the small brick building under a giant antique maple tree. The tree's roots were in the process of destroying the concrete sidewalk from below. It looked painful. The concrete slabs were being forced out of shape and slowly broken into gravelly bits. If the sidewalk was in pain, it must feel sorta like the pain in Max's mouth.
As he tooled around the block for the seventh time, a wisp of steam hissed out from under the hood. It was time to either visit the mechanic or face the music and pull into the parking lot under the tree with the torturing roots.
The Falcon lurched to a stop up against a yellow parking bumper. A covey of peanut M&M's scurried out from under the front seat. Bending over to scoop up the booty, Max felt little trickles of sweat running down his neck. The sweat was nothing compared to the almost visible cloud of aromatic armpit vapor that wafted into his nostrils. Wincing at the pain inflicted to his rotting choppers, he efficiently dispatched the grime-encrusted chocolate wads.
Not wanting to face the dentist with chocolate on his breath, he groped about beneath the seats one more time.
It had to be there. It was his favorite cure-all.
There was about three fingers left in the ever present pint-sized Jim Beam bottle. One finger to wash down the nuts. One for the chocolate. And one more just in case the dentist was short on novocain.
Feeling a bit more confident and under the influence of 86-proof courage, Max stepped out of his car and headed up the sidewalk. The little clock-face placard that was suction-cupped on the front door, indicated that lunch-hour was not quite over. He pulled the door open and stumbled into the cramped lobby.
"Gawd! This is probably how Ted Bundy felt," he grumbled.
Attached to the wall near the front door was one of those electronic-eye gizmos that rang a bell when you walked through. The kind they have at 7-11, so the clerk can scurry out of the back room to watch you shoplift.
The bell was actually a buzzer, and when Max walked through the invisible beam it scared the bejeezus out of the receptionist. She jumped out of her chair about half a foot, like a punch-drunk boxer reacting to the bell. She had been fully engaged in applying just the right line of lipstick onto her bloated lips. A sweaty red lipstick phallus had just raced across her jiggling jowls. She had branded herself with the red mark of Zorro.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, you wise ass?" She jabbed a crimson-tipped finger at the clock-face placard. "Can't you see I'm on my lunch break?" A momentary flash of comprehension crossed her face as she remembered her assignment as a people-greeter. "Uh, can I help you?"
Max was doubled over, unsuccessfully trying not to laugh, when the shaky old geezer that called himself a dentist came in to see what the commotion was all about. And it was a good thing he showed up when he did. The Zorro Lady was hysterical. She screamed and gesticulated at Max to shut up.
Max was still snickering as he offered his insurance card to the receptionist. She paused, glared at him, and motioned for him to set it on the counter. Hunched over a tiny little mirror, she wiped and daubed at her branded face with a spit-moistened Kleenex.
One look at the dentist virtually eliminated any urge or desire for laughter. He had to have measured in at six-foot-six. The hide on his lanky face was the color and consistency of a prickly-pear cactus. Salt and pepper whiskers grew up from his Nehru-type collar and up to just below his sunken eyes. He looked like a Frankensteinian chimpanzee with glasses. And the glasses! Two cylinders of glass about an inch thick that looked like they had just been sliced from a dirty icicle.
Max told the doctor that he really felt fine after all, and started for the door. But the overgrown doc was quicker than he looked. Waxy rubber gloves clamped onto Max's arm like the grip of death. They dragged him down the hallway of doom. The doctor's thickly-ridged, rubber soled shoes made a soft squeeching sound as they padded across the sticky linoleum floor. The air was getting sticky and thick. Had not been for the 100-proof antiseptic dentist office atmosphere, the effect of Max's fuming armpits and his Jim Beam breath would have been fatal at 10 paces.
"Well, Mark. You do have insurance, don't you, boy?"
"That's Max. I gave my card to the receptionist."
"Fine! Fine, Mark. Now, just you sit right down here and be comfortable. The nurse will be right in to take care of you."
Watching the doc squeech around the room and then back out into the hallway, Max noticed a few tiny flecks of red on his lab coat. His right shoe had one large round spot that still looked a bit wet. The Zorro Lady waddled in right behind the doc and poked Max in the chest with a glossy red fingertip. Max fell backward into a chrome and green Naugahyde chair surrounded by sinister implements of pain and torture. An aluminum clipboard covered with insurance forms and other legal-looking papers was thrust under his quivering chin.
"Sign! Here! And here! And on the back,too."
Max was amazed at the rapid change that had come over the visage of the Zorro Lady. A fresh coat of red had been slathered over her lips, which formed a narrow grimace as she grabbed the freshly executed documents. Grabbing a bib with a pudgy hand, she leaned over him to fasten it around his neck. Max was horrified as huge bovine breasts, swaddled in white polyester, blotted out the light and threatened to choke off his air supply. Just as panic was about to take hold, the eclipse was over. It took more than a few seconds for the lingering vapors--of what smelled like horse liniment--to dissipate.
From somewhere down the hall, Max could hear the screeching wail of a high speed drill. The sound was all too familiar. In his mind's eye, visions of cooling meat being sliced, diced, chopped, and homogenized was just too much. The doc's ugly face didn't help either. That wizened-up old bastard looked like he was in worse shape than the stiffs down at County. Jim Beam had done a good enough job to get him through the morning. He didn't need the dentist or his drill.
He had to get out of there.
Max grabbed at the bib and started to rip it off.
But it was too late!
The dentist was back!
And he was armed.
Gripped in a rubber glove on the Doc's right hand was what appeared to be a two quart hypodermic syringe. It sported a .45 caliber needle dripping with pale pink venom. A globular drop dangled and undulated on the business end of the needle. It looked just like....
Max felt the meaty, red-clawed hands of the Zorro Lady pressing heavily on his shoulders.
"Just relax, son, and open wide," croaked the Doc. "This shouldn't hurt...much."
The hideous needle drew closer and closer to Max's quivering lips. The red claws moved in to get a better grip around Max's throat.
Max's beeper went off and released about twenty megatons of brutal atavistic terror. His survival instinct erupted in a blood curdling scream and flailing limbs. The sudden gyrations sent the hypo plunging deep into the fleshy part of the Zorro Lady's ample forearm.
Max's shinbone smashed with a sickening thud into the Doc's groin. The punt launched the doc into what looked like a first-degree epileptic seizure...only much more painful.
The Falcon's skinny rear tires shrieked like banshees. It burned a ton-o'-rubber when it bounced over the broken sidewalk and into the street.