Ever wonder how serial killers are handling the lockdown? Are they self-quaranteening? Perhaps, during the pandemic, they're just window shopping.
He hadn’t come to protest but to observe. Sure, he resented the lockdown and chaffed from cabin fever as much as the next guy, and the same question he presumed weighed on the protesters’ minds weighed on his: when would they get back to work? But he didn’t carry a sign or shout or play to the media whose cameras bustled around the state building.
If the object was to tie up traffic and get attention, Operation Gridlock was a success. Despite the cold and occasional flurries, thousands had showed up to protest the quarantine. Three lanes of traffic blocked Capitol Avenue for over a mile. The majority of the protesters remained in their cars, wore masks and laid on their horns. Others stood outside their vehicles or in the beds of pickups waving flags and signs. One redneck in camo waved a flag from the Bass Tracker towed behind his truck. More than a few Confederate flags waved among the stars and stripes in the light breeze.
The crowd mulling about in front of the state capitol was another story. Most were maskless and a number of them, like the two doublewides near the statue of a former governor—one in camo, another in black SWAT outfit and bulletproof vest—carried assault rifles. What that had to do with protesting the governor’s stay-at-home order he had no idea. And while many of the protesters remaining in their cars appeared angry, the mood in front of the state building was festive. People cooped in their trailers too long enjoying fresh air and comradery. And the hell with social distancing. Reckless of the pandemic, they leaned close to hear each other over the cacophony of horns and shouting.
Some took selfies or videoed the crowd with their phones. He tried to stay out of their line of sight. Not that it mattered. He wore a surgical mask and baseball cap—not a MAGA hat but an old Tigers cap—nothing that made him stand out. A surprising number of children were present. He hadn’t expected that, but it made sense with the schools closed.
As his gaze crept over the crowd, seeking that one individual who stood alone and gazed back with a certain need in his eyes, a childhood memory slipped into his mind. When he was a boy his parents sometimes took him windows shopping. They’d walk down to the avenue in the evening and stroll under the streetlights looking in the lighted display windows of the closed shops where manikins modeled the latest fashions. Or shoes—men’s footwear on one side, women’s on the other. Drug store windows stocked with clocks and watches and bottles of aftershave and perfume and wallets in their handsome black-and-gold boxes. The Woolworth’s windows featuring so much merchandise you could stand there twenty minutes just to take it all in: toys, toasters, puzzles, dolls, music boxes, ties, porcelain figurines (Mom had a bunch of those…baby angels), boxes of chocolates, curling irons, umbrellas. The sporting goods store displaying Louisville sluggers, baseball gloves, basketballs, footballs, Converse All Stars… Stuff he couldn’t afford but enjoyed coveting until Mom and Dad started arguing and one or the other—usually Mom—snagged him by the hand and dragged him home. But that was still better than the times they both grabbed his hands and pulled till he thought he’d split apart like Rumpelstiltskin.
A young man on the opposite edge of the crowd held a sign that said REDNECKS GO HOME! No one paid him the least attention. Feeling the warm glow that came from encountering a kindred spirit, he wondered if the youth might welcome his company. Perhaps, as two outsiders looking in, they could discuss their self-imposed isolation and what they might do to alleviate their mutual ache. He knew a fellow loner when he saw one.
His gaze fell on a boy, maybe nine, ten, standing with his parents. All wore masks and gloves. The boy’s eyes were a startling blue, the color of cornflowers growing along the shoulder of the Interstate in spring. He looked bored, as if he’d rather be home playing video games than standing here in the cold while his parents held up signs that read “Live Free or Die” and “We are Essential!”
He closed his eyes, imagined looking into the boy’s mind and finding some common thread they might share, something that might click with his own boyhood memories and serve as the basis of conversation, of mutual empathy. A pet perhaps. He’d had a puppy when he was five, a black-and-white Cocker Spaniel, before it got run over. He wondered if the boy had ever suffered loss and if he might find some way to connect and console him.
But there was the virus to consider, the invisible microscopic monsters swarming around the faces of each and every member of the pressing crowd. Why he wore the mask and kept his distance. His fear kept him at bay. There was a lot of talk in the media about new tests you could administer at home. He wondered if he got his hands on some, he might have a guest over the house.
When he opened his eyes, the boy was staring at him, as if knowing what he was doing. Though the child couldn’t see, he smiled under his mask. The boy’s eyes were certainly a beautiful blue.
He turned away before the grownups saw who the boy was watching.
#
Back home, he skipped dinner. Leaving his mask and gloves in the garage, he washed his hands thoroughly and descended to the basement. He opened the fake panel and the steel door behind it and flicked on the lights.
The oak chair in the center of the room was bolted to the floor. The arm, leg and neck straps hung loose. Being underground, the guest room was effectively sound-proof, and as the house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac with a cemetery behind it, doubly so.
Sometimes he came in here to listen to their voices, but ghosts were no substitute for a live guest and today he heard only silence. It had been so long since he’d entertained. He’d been thinking about extending an invitation when the hospitals started filling up and the governor issued the order to stay at home. No way he could work his charm with the police watching. He’d always sought isolated places for his encounters; he’d never appreciated how necessary crowds were for him to exist.
He ran his fingers lovingly over the smooth grain of the chair arm where a boy had tried to scratch his initials into the oak with his thumbnail. The child hadn’t succeeded but you could barely make out an F and what might have been a P or the beginning of a B. He touched the letters lovingly. The contact brought back memories: a dark-eyed child, legs just long enough for his toes to touch the floor, arms just big enough for the straps to hold. He grasped the chair arm, his palm caressing the initials. Warmth flowed through him as he remembered the love he felt for the child and his gratitude for the boy’s sharing.
On a steel table nearby, his instruments, normally gleaming under the fluorescents, gathered dust, and despite the warmth he’d just experienced, a pang of loneliness stabbed like a cold December wind.
He touched an old blood stain in the seat of the chair. Despite scrubbing and even using bleach, sometimes the only way to get a stain out was sanding.
He sighed, shook off his brown mood.
Better times lay ahead. The pandemic wouldn’t last forever. The doctors and politicians on television said so.
He headed upstairs to fetch cleaning materials, determined to make the room welcoming for his next guest when the quarantine was lifted and life returned to normal.
If the object was to tie up traffic and get attention, Operation Gridlock was a success. Despite the cold and occasional flurries, thousands had showed up to protest the quarantine. Three lanes of traffic blocked Capitol Avenue for over a mile. The majority of the protesters remained in their cars, wore masks and laid on their horns. Others stood outside their vehicles or in the beds of pickups waving flags and signs. One redneck in camo waved a flag from the Bass Tracker towed behind his truck. More than a few Confederate flags waved among the stars and stripes in the light breeze.
The crowd mulling about in front of the state capitol was another story. Most were maskless and a number of them, like the two doublewides near the statue of a former governor—one in camo, another in black SWAT outfit and bulletproof vest—carried assault rifles. What that had to do with protesting the governor’s stay-at-home order he had no idea. And while many of the protesters remaining in their cars appeared angry, the mood in front of the state building was festive. People cooped in their trailers too long enjoying fresh air and comradery. And the hell with social distancing. Reckless of the pandemic, they leaned close to hear each other over the cacophony of horns and shouting.
Some took selfies or videoed the crowd with their phones. He tried to stay out of their line of sight. Not that it mattered. He wore a surgical mask and baseball cap—not a MAGA hat but an old Tigers cap—nothing that made him stand out. A surprising number of children were present. He hadn’t expected that, but it made sense with the schools closed.
As his gaze crept over the crowd, seeking that one individual who stood alone and gazed back with a certain need in his eyes, a childhood memory slipped into his mind. When he was a boy his parents sometimes took him windows shopping. They’d walk down to the avenue in the evening and stroll under the streetlights looking in the lighted display windows of the closed shops where manikins modeled the latest fashions. Or shoes—men’s footwear on one side, women’s on the other. Drug store windows stocked with clocks and watches and bottles of aftershave and perfume and wallets in their handsome black-and-gold boxes. The Woolworth’s windows featuring so much merchandise you could stand there twenty minutes just to take it all in: toys, toasters, puzzles, dolls, music boxes, ties, porcelain figurines (Mom had a bunch of those…baby angels), boxes of chocolates, curling irons, umbrellas. The sporting goods store displaying Louisville sluggers, baseball gloves, basketballs, footballs, Converse All Stars… Stuff he couldn’t afford but enjoyed coveting until Mom and Dad started arguing and one or the other—usually Mom—snagged him by the hand and dragged him home. But that was still better than the times they both grabbed his hands and pulled till he thought he’d split apart like Rumpelstiltskin.
A young man on the opposite edge of the crowd held a sign that said REDNECKS GO HOME! No one paid him the least attention. Feeling the warm glow that came from encountering a kindred spirit, he wondered if the youth might welcome his company. Perhaps, as two outsiders looking in, they could discuss their self-imposed isolation and what they might do to alleviate their mutual ache. He knew a fellow loner when he saw one.
His gaze fell on a boy, maybe nine, ten, standing with his parents. All wore masks and gloves. The boy’s eyes were a startling blue, the color of cornflowers growing along the shoulder of the Interstate in spring. He looked bored, as if he’d rather be home playing video games than standing here in the cold while his parents held up signs that read “Live Free or Die” and “We are Essential!”
He closed his eyes, imagined looking into the boy’s mind and finding some common thread they might share, something that might click with his own boyhood memories and serve as the basis of conversation, of mutual empathy. A pet perhaps. He’d had a puppy when he was five, a black-and-white Cocker Spaniel, before it got run over. He wondered if the boy had ever suffered loss and if he might find some way to connect and console him.
But there was the virus to consider, the invisible microscopic monsters swarming around the faces of each and every member of the pressing crowd. Why he wore the mask and kept his distance. His fear kept him at bay. There was a lot of talk in the media about new tests you could administer at home. He wondered if he got his hands on some, he might have a guest over the house.
When he opened his eyes, the boy was staring at him, as if knowing what he was doing. Though the child couldn’t see, he smiled under his mask. The boy’s eyes were certainly a beautiful blue.
He turned away before the grownups saw who the boy was watching.
#
Back home, he skipped dinner. Leaving his mask and gloves in the garage, he washed his hands thoroughly and descended to the basement. He opened the fake panel and the steel door behind it and flicked on the lights.
The oak chair in the center of the room was bolted to the floor. The arm, leg and neck straps hung loose. Being underground, the guest room was effectively sound-proof, and as the house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac with a cemetery behind it, doubly so.
Sometimes he came in here to listen to their voices, but ghosts were no substitute for a live guest and today he heard only silence. It had been so long since he’d entertained. He’d been thinking about extending an invitation when the hospitals started filling up and the governor issued the order to stay at home. No way he could work his charm with the police watching. He’d always sought isolated places for his encounters; he’d never appreciated how necessary crowds were for him to exist.
He ran his fingers lovingly over the smooth grain of the chair arm where a boy had tried to scratch his initials into the oak with his thumbnail. The child hadn’t succeeded but you could barely make out an F and what might have been a P or the beginning of a B. He touched the letters lovingly. The contact brought back memories: a dark-eyed child, legs just long enough for his toes to touch the floor, arms just big enough for the straps to hold. He grasped the chair arm, his palm caressing the initials. Warmth flowed through him as he remembered the love he felt for the child and his gratitude for the boy’s sharing.
On a steel table nearby, his instruments, normally gleaming under the fluorescents, gathered dust, and despite the warmth he’d just experienced, a pang of loneliness stabbed like a cold December wind.
He touched an old blood stain in the seat of the chair. Despite scrubbing and even using bleach, sometimes the only way to get a stain out was sanding.
He sighed, shook off his brown mood.
Better times lay ahead. The pandemic wouldn’t last forever. The doctors and politicians on television said so.
He headed upstairs to fetch cleaning materials, determined to make the room welcoming for his next guest when the quarantine was lifted and life returned to normal.