Peeler (2 page)

Whoa
, Randy thought.
Best tread lightly here.

“Nothing really. No big deal. I just have to make his meals special and it made me a little curious is all. When I heard you two were old buddies, both of you being magicians and all, I figured I’d come–”

“Peeler wasn’t a magician,” Barber interrupted. “He liked magic and it was a bit of a hobby for him, but he wasn’t in the business like me. He worked in a fucking chemical plant… made fertilizer or some crap like that.”

“Oh…” Randy said, and couldn’t think of anything else to say to keep the conversation going. What was he supposed to do, say
Hey, why does he rip the skin off his body?
Just didn’t seem right, and who knows, it might make this obviously unstable man fly off the handle into a rage. After all, it was his friend they were talking about. The moment dragged on, ten seconds ticking by without a word spoken by either man.

“Goodbye, Baxter,” Lucius finally said, turning to look back out the window again. “Go back to your cupcakes.”

“No wait a sec. Please. I… I just want to hear about… ah, you know… why he always wants to hurt himself?”

“Then go ask him yourself, boy. Leave me out of it. Just because you got a hard on for hearing juicy stories about one of the basement freaks, it’s not my problem.”

“No. That’s not it at all. I’m not like that.”

Lucius turned to look at Randy again. “Oh yeah? And what makes you so fucking special? Hmm? What makes you different from all the doctors and lawyers and the other million assholes that come here to poke around in our fucked up heads?”

Randy considered lying, trying to bluff his way into Lucius’ confidence but one look into Mr. Barber’s dark deeply recessed eyes was enough to convince him that wasn’t a good idea. This guy could smell bullshit from miles away. In fact, no matter what Randy said, it would probably be the wrong thing so he kept his big mouth shut and instead pulled up his navy blue T-shirt to let Lucius see his stomach.

To let Lucius see his scars.

To let Lucius see the crisscross network of deep cuts a troubled teen had once decided he needed to slice into his own skin to let the pain out.

Randy counted to ten then let his shirt fall back into place, covering his shame in cheap cotton then waited silently for whatever would happen next. He looked up from the floor to meet Lucius’ brutally intense dark eyes, seeing indifference there, but also understanding. The retired magician softened and began to smile again.

“Ahh… A kindred spirit of sorts. Yes?”

“Something like that,” Randy said, resisting the urge to scratch the nasty memories writhing around on his arms and belly like paper-thin razor blade snakes. “I just need to know why he does it. Please. I don’t even really know why. I just do.”

Lucius took a full thirty seconds considering his next words, their eyes locked as unspoken truths passed between them, secrets Randy had taken great care to keep buried and in the past. Exposed now, Randy had nothing left to say. Lucius would either help him or send him on his way. At that exact second, he didn’t care which.

“Okay, little man,” Lucius said. “Not right now, though. Meet me here tomorrow at the same time…after lunch, and I’ll tell you everything I know. I just wonder if it’ll be enough for you to drop this? Maybe… maybe not.”

The overweight magician winked at Randy, and then walked away.

***

That night, Randy dreamed of things he’d long tried to forget. Not all bad things, at first, mostly snippets of his childhood back in Buffalo, New York: playing war in the attic with his older brother, Tim, or playing smash-up derby by himself with his Tonka trucks or lighting firecrackers behind his friend Tommy Cranston’s garage. Basically harmless memories, a jumbled assortment of harmless kid stuff, but then the dream took a quick turn, a downward spiral into the dark painful places Randy had hoped never to visit again yet here he was. Even in the midst of sleep, part of him was aware he had no one to blame but himself. He should have known better. Should have let sleeping dogs lie.

Dogs…

Dog, actually. Just one.

That’s where it had started. With Mickey – Randy’s first (and only) pet. Mickey was a purebred Golden Lab but was small and frail for his breed, obviously the runt of the litter. Randy, who was rather small and skinny himself, had loved him from day one. They were best friends really, inseparable, and Randy trusted that damn mutt even more than his own brother, which was why it was Mickey that Randy confided in when his stepfather started sexually molesting him at the age of ten.

Randy’s real father had died of colon cancer in September of 1975 and his mother had went through a string of failures trying to replace him. By the Summer of 1979, a man by the name of Bob Tasker shared her bedroom and took on the mantle of “dad” to Randy and Tim. Tasker was an accountant and a real clean cut, spit and polished kind of man. He wore a suit and tie to work everyday, his shoes were always shiny, and he smiled and waved to nearly everyone he’d meet. To the outside world it appeared that Randy’s mom had made quite the catch, but the darkest secrets always seem to be hidden in unlikely places. Bob Tasker was a pedophile. Mind you, Randy’s mom had no idea about that and obviously neither did Randy. At ten, he wouldn’t have even known what that word meant. Unfortunately, he soon would.

Mickey was only a pup back then, and one or two nights a week Randy would huddle in bed with his friend, crying himself to sleep and wondering what he had done so wrong that his new dad always had to sneak in and hurt him. Randy had considered going to his mother for help, or to Tim, but he was pretty sure they were getting their share of hurt too. This went on for nearly four years, until the month before Randy was turning fourteenth. He was still a small kid, and not nearly strong enough to fight his own battles.

So Mickey had fought it for him.

Tried to anyway. Randy’s stepfather had wandered in drunker than usual and was having trouble getting his “equipment” to work the way he wanted. Mad as hell, he’d started hitting Randy, probably convincing himself it had to be the boy’s fault. All Randy saw was a flash of fur and bared teeth, and felt a sharp hot pain in his left hand, the one he’d been hiding his face behind, warding off his step dad’s fist. Mickey had jumped into the fight to protect Randy but had accidentally nipped his master’s hand in the frenzy. Tasker had viciously swatted Mickey off the bed and given him a solid kick in the ribs for interrupting his fun and games, and while the dog had limped into the corner to cower in the dark, he’d turned his attention back to Randy, pulling back his hand to strike him yet again.

That was when they’d both noticed the blood.

Mickey had cut Randy’s hand, his sharp canine teeth catching him in the meaty part below his thumb and drawing a thin line down toward his left wrist. There wasn’t a lot of blood, wasn’t squirting out or anything like that, but there was enough that it pooled into the palm of Randy’s hand and dripped down onto his torn pajamas. The sight of his injured hand stopped his stepfather cold, the look of superiority vanishing from his drunken face to be replaced by fear.
Don’t tell your mother,
was all he’d said to Randy that night, and had left without another word. He would return many times in the next year that he lived with them, but Randy had found his weak spot and after some trial and error realized he could frighten his pathetic new dad by keeping a carpet knife handy and cut himself on the arm or his belly whenever he tried to enter his bedroom. It was crazy, but having that knife made Randy finally feel in control of his life, finally gave him a medium to control his own destiny. The blade made him sting, sure, but it also felt good, the temporary pain more than justified by the freedom and control it gave him.

Tasker eventually left their home but his five year stay with their family had messed young Randy up considerably. He started drinking, of course. He also started doing drugs. Nothing was in moderation with Randy; everything had to be to the extreme. For a while, the booze and drugs numbed the pain, kept him in check, but through it all he still needed the knife. Still needed those razor thin doorways opened on his skin whenever he felt life slipping out of control or the pressure to fit in building. It made no sense, but to Randy, the cuts healed him, the blood washing away his fears. Right or wrong, self-abuse was the only solution he knew. He didn’t dare trust his pain to anyone else. Anxiety, depression, and a rock bottom sense of self-esteem can do that to a teenage kid. A hell of a way to live but even back then, Randy had been smart enough to know he needed to get his head screwed on straight, to somehow, someway, stop hurting himself or one night he would cut himself in the wrong place or just that little bit too deep, and there would be no way to stop the bleeding.

As strange as it might seem, cooking had been Randy’s salvation and to this day he’d have a hard time explaining why, even to himself. Being a chef might seem lame to most people, but he didn’t care. Addicts take comfort where they can find it, and carving up a rack of lamb was a hell of a lot healthier than cutting himself. There was probably more to it than that, but then again, maybe it truly was as simple as that. Who knows? There was just something wonderful about the tastes and aromas and endless possibilities that the kitchen held for him, and learning to cook became an addiction in itself, a healthy way to turn his already obsessive-compulsive personality into something useful, rather than destructive. Things had improved dramatically for Randy after that. The future was actually looking good for a change.

Of course, Randy would wake up in the morning to realize that no matter how much he hoped and prayed his problems were left in the past, the worst addictions didn’t let go of a person quite that easy. No, most held on for life.

***

“You look like shit, my friend,” Lucius Barber said. “Bad night?”

Randy was back in the in-patient recreation center, meeting with the grey haired magician as planned, standing at the same big window they’d talked beside yesterday. Randy probably did look terrible. He sure felt that way anyway, having not had a very restful sleep. He’d had bad dreams all night and had woken up several times sweating heavily in the grip of panic attacks, just like the good old days. Even now, in broad daylight, Randy felt feverish and a little shaky. His only hope was Lucius didn’t ask to see his stomach again. He didn’t want him to start asking questions about the fresh cut hidden underneath his shirt. It was only a tiny cut, a mere slice, but he still felt like a total idiot and failure for doing it. Even as the blade kissed his skin he’d been screaming in his head to stop, but his hand wouldn’t listen. The urge to cut himself was too strong, just like back in the really bad days.

“Something like that, yeah. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh… okay,” Lucius said, smiling as he looked his curious new friend up and down. Randy wondered if he could see the outline of the Band-Aid near his belly button beneath the thin grey cloth, but didn’t dare look down to check.

“I’m here to talk about Peeler, not me.”

“Sure. But you know I don’t have all the answers you’re looking for. All I can do is tell you what happened to him and why I think he’s doing what he does. If I tell you that, will you promise to drop this shit?”

“Deal. I just feel if I know him a little better it might help me understand some of the stupid things I do… I mean did, you know, back when I was younger.”

“Of course. A bit warped, but what the fuck do I care. I think I see the logic in it. Whatever floats your boat, right?”

“Right. So tell me why he does it?”

“Easy. He’s insane. Right out of his tree, but he doesn’t seem to know that. He thinks he has this all figured out.”

“All what?”

“Life. Death. The Afterlife. You name it. He thinks he’s found a way to beat the system, Randy. Thinks that if he can peel off all his skin he’ll live forever.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly, but that doesn’t make it any less true. It’s what he believes. Look… I don’t know why you did the things you did to yourself, and I don’t give a shit. The point is you had your reasons and I’m willing to bet it happened over a long time. Something or someone fucked you up and the pain or humiliation, or anger found its own outlet. You never chose to do it; you just ended up with an itch and a knife to scratch it with. Sound about right?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Well, Peeler wasn’t like that. Most self-mutilators have a story somewhat like yours… a rage and shame combo that secretly brews for years, but according to Peeler he found his calling all in one glorious day of pain and suffering. Lost most of his skin and probably most of his mind all in a oner!”

“Really? What happened?”

Lucius paused to look around the room, making sure no one was listening. Not that anyone was likely to care what they talked about. The rec center was fairly full today but everyone was busy visiting friends and family or doing their own thing and no one seemed to give a damn about them.

“Yesterday I told you Peeler wasn’t a magician, right? He was a fanboy. Had been for years. Well, it was that obsession that screwed him in the end. Like most people, he was a big fan of David Copperfield, even though the boys I trained were way the fuck better. Ever heard of their magic show, Fire and Ice?”

Randy just shrugged his shoulders. “Magic was never my thing, sorry.”

“Well anyway… Peeler liked Copperfield and there was this magic coin trick he saw David do one night on television that Peeler wanted to learn. It was child’s play, really, something simple done with a close up audience that tricked the eyes and looked more impressive than it really was. The trick involved some simple sleight of hand, but the secret lay in the fact he used two coins, not just the one, but nobody in the audience, nor Peeler at home, knew that and presumed Copperfield had worked real magic right in front of their eyes. Textbook shit any decent magician could pull off, but for weeks after that show, Peeler tried to figure it out, carrying his lucky silver dollar coin around with him day and night. He was clueless, basically.