The Great American

A baseball legend and his serial killer life.

The wrecked convertible alongside the road had not begun to register in his mind yet. He had let it coast by his line of sight. Inside his head somewhere he’d seen it and known immediately whose car it was. But he’d driven thirty miles past it before his brain decided to make a point of it; he hadn’t fully realized whose arm he’d seen, hanging lifelessly in the night. But it was her convertible he was sure of it, the double-jointed arm belonged to her. There had been no red and blue flashing lights in sight, no shrilling sound of an ambulance. There would be no rescue, unless he turned back, or used his cell-phone to call for help. He wasn’t about to turn back and the silver cell-phone continued to lie on the leather seat beside him.

Her smile flashed in his mind. A beautiful smile, and he nearly turned back for her, nearly reached across for the cell- phone. Instead he turned on the radio and hummed to the beat of an old song.
* * *
He averted his eyes from the newspaper bins, walked inside to grab a donut and a cup of coffee. His ritual had changed. Sat down in his regular booth and caught the waitress’ eye. “I’ll have a plain glazed donut, make that two, and a black coffee.”

“No jelly donut?” She asked.

"Not today, can’t afford the risk. Just got this suit, I don’t want to take any chances with it just yet.” He drummed his fingers along the tabletop, for lack of something better to do.

“No paper either.”

He snapped his head up at that. She was looking at him pleasantly enough but he still didn’t like it. “Yeah well the world won’t go to hell if I don’t read the paper, now will it?” He’d been nasty about it, but didn’t care. The waitress tapped her pencil against her pad of paper and swallowed a deep breath. “You know what—nevermind I can go without.”

He picked up his overcoat slung it over his shoulder. Standing up rather brusquely he nearly knocked her down as he went to move around her. The pad of paper with his order fell to the floor.

“Are you always in such a rush?” A voice behind them said.

The voice had nailed his feet to the linoleum. He couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to. A sinner for most of his life, he prayed for the first time, begging God to take her away. He’d never seen a ghost and never believed in them but was convinced of their existence in this moment. The woman’s blue eyes stared coolly at him but instead of putting him at his ease it did just the opposite. His rough fingernails dug into his palms.

“You okay?” She stood in front of him and seemed oblivious of the people that surrounded them.

“I’m great,” he said unclenching his fingernails from his palms, he felt a drop of blood making his hand sticky.

“You don’t remember me do you?” She sounded dejected and cocked her head to the side, not looking at him straight, but at a button on his shirt. The waitress picked up the pad of paper and walked back to stand behind the counter.

He gave the waitress’ departure not even a thought. When he still said nothing she helped him. “We went to high school together.”

“Amber Rose.” It rolled out of his mouth easily.

“You remembered my name.” She brightened and beamed up at him with that smile of hers that he loved so dearly.

“It’s been stuck in my head lately.” He looked her over from top to bottom. She looked real enough. He studied her face in the way he’d always wanted to, he cherished every nuance and every feature, as if he would never see them again.

“Yours too, but my reasons are different from yours, I’m sure.”

Amber ran her hand through her hair, a nervous gesture, he was certain. He had always made her nervous. She had been quick to blush whenever he uttered a simple word or a glance in her direction. He had wanted her in high school even though he’d barely breathed a word to her in the two years he’d spent with her in English 11 and 12.

There was something more to it than just a want and a need for her it was something more tangible. She was his and he was hers, even though neither one had said it out loud. The brief reverie was shaken from his head as he caught one of the waitress’s looking at him suspiciously.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He didn’t understand why she was just standing there; they were overcrowding the tight space. A waitress moved around him and grumbled something under her breath, he caught the last bit of it, “he’s too big.” He gestured to the table he’d been sitting at; with his hands he carefully smoothed out his coat before he folded it up and laid it on the seat. Transfixed by the dark red coloring of the vinyl seat, he swallowed invisibly, and waited until she sat down before he seated himself across from her.

“You looked a little agitated,” she said and nodded to the waitress who was giving him the evil eye.

“Well in my defense I’ve had a really bad day—actually I’ve had a year of bad days.” His right hand dashed into the dark thickness of his hair and then back out. He watched her in the way he used to with his eyes half closed. He’d thought he was safe since she was looking out the window. She turned to him and smiled again very sadly.

“Now you see me. Or do you?”

“What do you mean?” He took his eyes off her and snapped his fingers at a passing waitress. In his business he figured it was sort of his right to feel as if he owned the place. “I’d like my order back if you don’t mind. She knows what I want,” he shot his eyes towards the waitress who was still eyeing him suspiciously. The waitress behind the counter was visibly annoyed even though it was just coffee and some donuts. Jesus, he thought, is it too much to ask of someone to pour a cup of coffee and grab a few donuts? “What were we talking about?” He attempted to let his mind and conversation swim away from the dark waters she was pushing him into.

“Last night. You didn’t see me, did you?”

“That was just a bad dream.” The waitress placed the order he’d made in front of him and left him to his own devices. “Wait hold on a second—”he called to the waitress, she came back over to him. “Do you want something?” he turned to Amber fleetingly and then back to the waitress.

“A year of your salary would be nice.” The waitress commented sourly, she sashayed her hips and left him.

“She was my waitress earlier. As much as I ate I doubt she thought I wanted seconds of anything. Not even water.” She smiled, and this time he knew this smile was different from the others. Whether that was good or not he didn’t know. “Last night—”she began.

“Really, you should just forget about it, it was just a nightmare.” He had to interrupt her; the water was closing in over his thighs now.

“Then how would I know about it?”

“Maybe you’re psychic.” He bit into a donut and chewed it noisily for a good thirty seconds before he took a sip of his coffee.

“Maybe I am,” she fixed him with one of her broken smiles and stared back out the window into the street.

“What’s out there?” He said casually.

“Your life. You aren’t going to get anywhere with this bad dream philosophy you’ve got going on. How long is it going to take until you realize you aren’t having a bad dream? That you’re the nightmare.”

He swallowed another bite of his donut and his right hand shook as he brought the coffee back up to his mouth. Who the fuck made you God for a day? He thought angrily, and scowled at her curious look. He stayed silent, for what could be said? She was mad, crazy, bonkers, a schizo, a nutbag, a loose screw—

“You didn’t just pass me on the road. You put me there you son-of-a-bitch.”

“Is that so?” His white teeth flashed out as he laughed at her. He shook with laughter as he held onto his cup of hot coffee— a good portion spilled onto his lap but he didn’t seem aware of it. “Oh Amb, really now? Haven’t you picked up a paper lately? Do you know who I am now?”

“Then you know what you do at night?” She said.

“Of course I know. They don’t mean anything. Their faceless Amb, the whole lot of them. They’re not like me. If I died tomorrow millions would cry over me. Finding a dead body with its face removed—” He flashed the smile that had won him over with the press and had also nicknamed him “The Charmer” and slapped his hands hard against the table, “I mean come on, who really gives a damn about them?”

“Lots do. All those people left behind—”

“You mean their families? Their friends?That’s just the FB.”

She looked at him, her golden hair massacred by the fingers she’d used to plow through her mane. “What are you talking about?”

“Fringe benefit, the icing on the cake. Knowing that maybe the families and friends are watching me, clapping for me, chanting my name. I slaughtered their sheep and hell, they love me. I’m their ‘Great American’. ” He saw her face pale and reached out across the table to soothe her. He took the small dainty hands into his right and softly stroked them. “Listen, why don’t we start over. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I don’t want to waste this.”

“What?” She blinked her eyes slowly.

“A connection. It was there back then and it’s here now. And to be perfectly honest, it’s the only reason that you’re still here.”

“You almost killed me.”

“But I didn’t, did I? I wouldn’t have hit you from behind if I’d known it was you inside. I actually thought you were dead. I could never bring myself to scraping off this pretty face.”
He caressed her face with his long fingers and cupped her chin in the large palm of his hand. The fear in her blue eyes had soaked into his skin. He didn’t revel in this fear, for it was hers, it burned him like a brand. He tightened his hold for an instant and then let his hand drop away from her face. His fingers left imprints; he turned away from the marks and clenched his jaw tight.

"But you left me to—”

“Die. I know. But don’t you see, it’s fate. We’re meant to be, always have been. You know this. I know you do. I see it in your eyes.”

And as if she believed him squeezed her eyes shut.

“You can’t hide it from me. You love me.” He lifted his cup up to his mouth and swallowed the black coffee, which was now warm.

“How can I love you? It’s sick—it’s all just sick. I’m crazy…insane, it can’t be normal to love somebody like you, it just can’t be. I have to leave—I have to go—God I have to—have to get out of here.”

She scrambled to slide out of the booth and the red vinyl seat. She never made it out, her legs must have been sticking to the vinyl with sweat, he thought. He slid out easily enough and stood in front of her escape route.

“Then it won’t stop. If you’re mine, I’ll never do it again. But you have to be mine.” He could see the thoughts explode in her mind like a chemistry experiment gone wrong. “No one would ever believe you. Don’t try it. Think of the lives you could save, the heartache of the family and friends you could take away. Don’t be selfish. Think of the shee—all those innocent people. Be their hero. Be my savior.” He knew he had almost lost her calling those useless ordinary people sheep again. Looking around them he said quietly, “They’re staring, please don’t get up, stay.”

Her eyes could tell him no lies, she was afraid of him; she put her hands on the table and pushed herself up halfway. “I can’t hurt you. You know that. Now please sit back down.” She slid back onto the red vinyl and it made a squeak. He smiled at the sound of it. He could tell she was about to resume their main topic of conversation again, and settled back with his cup of coffee, clutched in a steady hand and raised it to his lips.

“But what kind of person would that make me be? Knowing what you’ve done and saying…saying absolutely nothing about it. Jesus, John, don’t you hate yourself?”

“Hate myself?” His coffee went down the wrong way and he coughed, picked up a napkin to cover his mouth and coughed harder this time. He tossed the napkin to the side. “Are you serious Amber? The whole world loves me, why would I hate myself?”

“Because you’re sick.”

“If I’m sick it’s merely a byproduct of this fucking society. But I’m not sick. If I was I’d be banging my head off this table. I’m more human than most. I give in to my impulses. True to myself.”

“More human?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Amber don’t you ever think about destroying something? Haven’t you ever felt like killing somebody?”

“Yes, but I don’t act on it, I suppress the urge.”

“Exactly, see I knew you were going to say that. Why deny yourself? The best shrinks in this state would say that suppression is the ‘unhealthiest form of dealing with your emotions’.” The tone he’d used was the same as his shrink’s; he had Dr. Rendell’s voice down pat. “Why deny your wants, why not give into them. We’re mammals right? Just like tigers… they have instincts. Well so do we, we have the instincts to kill, to maim, deep down its there in all of us. It’s just closer to the surface for me.”

She was shocked all the way down to her pointy heels. It was the shock that kept her from crying and climbing over the booth, he was glad for it. It kept her there—with him. He picked up a small plastic tub filled with creamer and passed it from one hand to the next and back again never looking away from her.

The emotions and thoughts he carried were buried in the graveyard of his mind one of these was confusion. Why didn’t she understand? Why couldn’t she see the reality that surrounded her? Did he have to spell it out? “They’re nothing. Besides its fun and it gives me something to do. Everybody needs a hobby don’t they?” The face he wore was painted with a sickening smile.

Tears had welled up in her blue eyes and made them an even brighter blue. She covered her face with her hands and a sob was torn from her mouth like a wing from a butterfly. Her body shook and her arms went around herself, she moved forwards then backwards like a crazy woman in a straightjacket.

His memory flashed back to a darkened movie theatre and an older woman. She’d been performing the same actions but crying out “Gloria” in a pitiful wail. Now there was someone who really needed help. He was perfectly sane and capable of reason. He wasn’t locked up in a padded cell and didn’t wash his hands 10 times consecutively. He was normal.

“Is everything alright here?”

He turned his head towards the voice. The man was old, probably in his late sixties. The decrepit fool. “Everything’s fine here boss, nothing to worry about.” The old man turned away and walked back to his booth.

John watched him sit down slowly on the seat. The old man was still staring at him. “Somethin’ I can do for you?” He asked.

"No son, just wanted to be sure everything was alright is all.”

“All’s copasetic here boss, no need to worry.”

“Why are you calling him boss?”

“What’s that?” He turned back around to face her and remembered. “Oh it’s just something I say, seems to make them feel important. Which they aren’t, of course. But oh well, I try to be a good guy.” He looked her over a moment. She was calm and still, which he thought was a little too sudden. “You over that little fit now?”

“I never thought you’d turn out this way.”

“And which way would that be?”

"The wrong way.”

“That could cover a lot of things, why don’t you pinpoint something.” He watched her look back out the window. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

“Why should I when you don’t even see me?”

“I see you just fine.”

“No you don’t. You’re not hearing me and you’re not seeing me. You’re stuck inside your ego. You never really see what’s in front of you. It’s about damn time that you saw things for what they are.” She reached out to touch her hand to his face as he had touched her.

He nuzzled his face against her small palm and breathed the scent of her skin in through his nose. He gagged on the stench of it. John’s dark green eyes sprang open and the gash that led from her wrist to her upper arm was finally spread wide. The skin had fallen away from her arm and the stark white of her bone gleamed up at him like a pearl.

“You did this to me. You did this to me and all the others. You did this! You!”

Her screams terrorized him. The words reverberated in his head. He nearly fell as he rushed out of the booth. The words still banged against his brain like a gong. The plate with the donut was knocked down to the floor; porcelain broke into pieces and the glazed donut rolled like a quarter down the linoleum.

“Sir? Are you alright?” The waitress tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

He twisted around violently at her touch and shouted, “Why does everybody keep asking me that? I’m fine! Can’t you all see that I’m fine! I’m just fine! She’s the one! She’s the one that you should be asking.” He pointed to the booth he’d vacated; she sat there reposed, her eyes casually resting on his face.

“Ask who?” The waitress turned sad eyes to the handsome man that stood in front of her and decided she would help him. “Why don’t you sit at the counter here and I’ll fetch you a glass of water, I think I even have a xanax to spare.”

“I don’t need water and I don’t need some damn pill. I’m great. Don’t you know that? I’m ‘The Great American’. I’m great! I’m better than you,” he pointed at the waitress, “I’m better than everybody in this damn diner, especially her.” He looked straight at Amber, but somewhere deep inside he knew it wasn’t really her. John tried to remember running her off the road, but he couldn’t. It had never happened, at least not in real life, he had dreamed it.

“Do you see someone Sugar?” The waitress asked and peered up at him through her fogged up glasses. His shouts of rage had fallen on them and made them misty.

He glanced back at Amber; her face was expressionless, and then turned away from her. She wasn’t real. His conscience had conjured her up because she was the only thing in the world that would have made him stop killing. The guilty waters filled with the blood of those he’d murdered were drowning him. John’s mind fell apart. “No…get the fuck out of my way lady.” He saw the door swing open; a customer was about to walk inside, the man stopped in mid-step. The man stared at John and then tried to compose himself, he took out his wallet and searched for a piece of paper anything for the legend in front of him to sign. John was blind to the man’s actions. He nearly stumbled to the ground when the little man bumped into him; the customer however was knocked down flat on the sidewalk. “Watch where you’re going buddy.” John spat out viciously. Rage pumped through his heart and a cold fear made his legs run faster than they ever had on the diamond. You’re not hearing me and you’re not seeing me. Her words stabbed at him; turned his stomach into knots, fear had made him sightless. He didn’t stop for anything he didn’t bother to look around him he just ran.

There was a flash of red. The same color as the vinyl seat. And then his face shattered against the windshield. The bones in his legs snapped, one of those jagged bones was lodged in his taut abdomen. He opened his eyes and stared at the woman behind the cracked glass. Blood gushed up past the internal injuries and flooded out his mouth. John blinked past the blood and attempted to scream, but the sound that he made hadn’t come close, it came out a strangled gurgle.

His dark green eyes were staring out at her. They looked frozen. Oh God, no, no. She closed her eyes tight. “This isn’t happening,” she told herself softly and opened her eyes.

She slowly stepped out of the car, the body entering her vision. All she could think of was to stand there, in disbelief of the whole scene before her. A heavy iron smell swamped over her and brought back reality. Her nails scratched against the red paint of the convertible as she clambered onto the hood to shield his body with her own.

“Don’t die. Don’t die. Please don’t die John. Please don’t die.” She whispered fervently against his forehead, brushing back the thick dark hair that was matted and sticky with blood. She could feel the bones sticking out of his skin. There were too many places that bled for her to try and staunch the flow of it. John had been dead long before then; her efforts wouldn’t have mattered. Amber Rose held him in her arms and begged him not to die.

And ten television channels broke the news of the baseball legend’s death; the hearts of America broke, and the case of the Face Cleaver went deathly cold.