Cleanliness and Godliness Everywhere he looked, he saw crosses. From the perpetually dirty linoleum tiles of his bathroom floor to the aged cracks in the badly plastered walls, he saw crosses. Every gaze revealed to him that shape. His eyes worked the geometry of the patterns and picked them out. He didn't consciously attempt to, they just appeared. The shapes stood out in stark relief against its own background. Whatever the material, whatever the pattern, sooner or later the crosses appeared. Embedded in the structure, they seemingly floated. He had no recollection when this particular shape began to materialize so prominently to his vision. Any ordinary person would see the shape built into a pattern and not think anything of it. Horizontal and vertical tiles intersecting--a cross. Two cris-crossing cracks in a wall-- obviously, a cross. However, to him this mundane and pointless observation, this geometric play on sight, meant more. They beckoned him in a silent subtle pulsating way, a way only he could see, yet couldn't quite understand. All over, wherever he looked, the captivating shape haunted him in an elusive manner. At first, he thought it was the medication he was on, the pills playing tricks with his mind. Ever since Dr. Hendburg prescribed the Buspar to him, his obsessive-compulsiveness had become more subtle. No longer did he have the nagging urge to comb the fringe of his late mother's oriental rug. Nor did he have to repeatedly check to make sure that he locked the door he knew in his heart was in fact locked. This annoying tendency of his almost drove him out of his mind. Yet, he could do nothing to stop it. Without the medication, of course. He was a sick man, and he knew it, but with the pills he felt stronger, more in control. As he was getting ready for work, he made sure, like he did every day, that his medicine cabinet was orderly, that he had organized the top of his dresser, and that his hands were clean. His hands had to be clean. Not one thing could be out of place. Disorder made him nauseous. Although he hated these compulsions, they were what kept him on his toes. Cleanliness right next to godliness. After finishing a passage in his bible, the same bible his mother had given him years ago, he walked through the kitchen. A reflection caught his eye. Shining on the floor in front of the closed pantry door was a blazing cross. He knew that the sunlight filtering through the dirty kitchen window had formed it. Through the trees, the light shone into the room, onto the floor, in the said shape. Mesmerized, he stopped to look at it, to listen to it. As the sun moved slowly so did the cross until it floated on the wooden door and stopped at eye level. Scratch, scratch, scratch. He knew where the sound was coming from, but he didn't know how. He was too scared to find out. Finally, diverting his eyes from the sunlight cross, purple and red splotches dancing in his vision, he tried to ignore the sound. Disorder! I won't stand for it, he thought to himself. If he stopped to silence the scratching sound, he would be late for work. That would make twice this week already. Mr. Renolds would be extremely upset. Big Joe, as they affectionately called him, had done his mother a favor by giving him this job. Losing it would mean more chaos in his already frantic life. Scratch, scratch--like sharp claws on metal. "Stop it!" he shouted after he unconsciously adjusted the placement of a cup so that it fit completely inside a tile on his counter top. The cross seemed to disappear before his eyes, but he knew that it was only the sun moving behind a cloud. Yet, the sound persisted. It seemed to be coming from behind the door, from within a room he hardly used. Each time the scratching sound had haunted him, he could never bring himself to investigate. The implication of what it might mean could possibly put him over the edge. Still, blocking the sound proved to be useless. He shook himself from the daze that claimed him and continued where he had left off. Looking at his watch, it read twenty minutes to nine. Shit, his mind spat, going to be late again. Passing the kitchen sink on his left, the compulsion struck him again. His mind played tug-of- war. Giving in, he turned the hot water on and washed his hands vigorously with soap, the same way he did whenever he felt momentarily out of control or nervous, a symptom the Buspar neglected to help. When his mind finally settled, the pain dug in and the scratching sound stopped. He feared women. The mere thought of even talking to one made the bile in his gut boil. Mother had always told him that women were evil and twisted, that they were a nuisance. He always listened to his mother. Well, why should he not? She had no reason to lie to him; she loved him and was only trying to protect him from the dirty clutches of those around. That was why he avoided females at any cost. For him, walking to work proved harder than would be expected. Those unclean seductresses were everywhere, taunting him with their charms, just like his mother told him they would. Being at work became an anxiety attack in itself because even foul creatures needed to wear shoes. He hated them. Nothing would please him more than cleansing the world of their scourge. Every filthy creature he passed, every whore that tried to meet his gaze plagued him with the sign. From the fabric of their clothes to the features of their faces, crosses radiated from them. The thoughts of death, killing as many as he could, clouded his mind, thoughts he would never have even dreamed of having before he started with the medication. Now, with each passing day, the recurring urge ravaged his subconscious. Mother had always been right. Every day he walked the same path to work, never deviating from his plotted course: Left down Main Street to Carpenter Drive, a quarter of a mile down Carpenter past the big Nike billboard, right onto Mercy, then two blocks to the worst shoe store in Pittsburgh--Big Joe's World of Shoes. And every morning another cross formed by the eroding sidewalk in front of the store greeted him upon entry, the bas-relief created by a sink hole. The job sucked, but since Big Joe had been friends with his mother and partners with his father, he received a decent wage. However, if he continued to be repeatedly tardy like he has been lately, Big Joe would definitely become less and less inclined to keep him on the job. Straightening his tie for the hundredth time in the span of fifteen minutes, he walked through the doors of Big Joe's World of Shoes, avoiding stepping on the cross shape, with two minutes to spare. "Good to see you could actually make it on time Brad," Big Joe snorted with sarcasm. He was a rather large man in his late forties. His cliche beer gut hung over his too tight pants while the buttons on his wrinkled shirt threatened to pop off. Like clockwork, he had a can of Coke in his mitts, clenched tight as he brought the beverage to his greasy lips. As usual, the store was empty. "Sorry, Big Joe," Brad said. "I've been trying harder." "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." His big belly bounced as he chuckled to himself. "There's shit for you to do in the back. We got a shipment of new sneakers that need to be unpacked and counted." Brad realized long ago that Big Joe wasn't the kindest man on the planet, but to make his mother proud he had to put up with all that life threw at him because he was different. Big Joe liked to make life tough. "Sure, Big Joe. I'll get right on it." "I bet you will," he giggled to himself before walking back into his office. Brad hated receiving shipments. It took him forever to do. He hated to get dirty and he hated the uncontrolled chaos in which Big Joe kept the back room. Joe knew of Brad's condition and aversion to disorganization and made him do the tasks anyway. In certain ways, he was very cruel. Yet, Brad could not argue and risk losing his job. That might embarrass his mother's name. Like usual, the stockroom was a pig sty. If he had the time, it would be spotless. That was his obsessive-compulsive tendency talking. Now, with the medication, it was a little easier to tolerate. Still, the idea of being surrounded by filth didn't appeal to him. For a store that didn't sell much, the larger than normal shipment made him tired already. This, he thought to himself, was going to take a while. Box after box, Brad worked on shipment. His fingers felt like they might bleed or fall off from all the opening. With no box cutters around, he was forced to open them with his fingers, a task that left him full of calluses and paper cuts. He felt trapped in, the open containers piling up around him. It was almost time to pop another pill; the twinge of anxiety began to crawl over him. Looking at his watch, he noticed that lunchtime was getting close. The door opened behind him, filtering daylight into the otherwise dusky gloom-filled stockroom. "Hi, Big Joe," Brad said, restraining the laugh threatening to escape his lips. He always found Big Joe to be a rather cartoonish looking character. Meaning no disrespect, he subdued the chuckle and went back to his work. "How's it goin' back here, son?" he asked, closing the door. Smelling of nicotine, he moved closer to Brad. "I'll be done soon, then I'll take my lunch." "You bet," he said, his mood not as bitter as usual. "I got something else for you to do." When the strong grip clasped itself onto Brad's shoulder, the box of sneakers fell to the ground. He winced in pain as Big Joe leaned in closer. At first, Brad thought he was just being overly friendly, a trait he knew Big Joe never displayed. Then the revolting odor of smoker's breath filled his lungs. Big Joe's mouth was at his ear, his voice low and calm. "I got something else for you to do," he repeated in a dull and sleepy voice, "now." Brad swallowed hard, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach. The need to wash his hands asserted itself, but he could not move. Big Joe's hand kept him in place. "Wh . . . what's that, Big Joe?" he asked, the nervousness beyond hiding. "You know your momma convinced me to give you this job," he said in an informative tone. "Since you haven't been working up to potential lately . ..." "I'll . . . I'll do better, I swear," Brad pleaded, having no idea what Big Joe was getting at. "I'll try harder." "That you will." In a sickening display of affection, Joe's tongue wet Brad's ear while his loose hand caressed his bottom. "It's about time, Brad, you pulled your weight around here and made that mother of yours proud." He was right, Brad hated to admit. The revulsion that washed over him made him feel caked with filthiness. Uncomfortable as he was, he couldn't struggle--Big Joe lived up to his name. Pulling away was a mistake. In an instant, he began to choke. Around his neck, his hands fought to pull away Big Joe's weapon of choice, a wooden shoe stretcher. The object pushed hard against his windpipe which made breathing difficult. Tears welled up in Brad's eyes; he didn't deserve this. The sound of pants being undone filled the quiet stockroom. Pulling them around is ankles, he told Brad to do the same. Obliging, he choked back a cry as tears fell freely. "Cry, you fuckin' baby. That'll make momma proud. Take it like a man," he spat through gritted teeth. "Take it like a man and shut up about this." Pulling down Brad's underwear, he fumbled for his flaccid penis. Fondling it as if it were his own, he threatened, "If you ever tell anyone about this, you'll lose more than your job!" Dropping the shoe stretcher, he opted for the strength of his own hands to keep Brad at bay. His lips smacked together at the sight of Brad's creamy skinned buttocks. "Sweet meat," he whispered. Positioning himself, he pressed Brad's face hard against a stack of boxes. Brad wept openly now, too weak to struggle against the advances of his boss. "Spread 'em wide." Brad followed instructions. Electric shock stunned his body. Injected, Big Joe rammed himself into Brad, the smile beaming from ear to ear, void of affection and kindness. Throwing his head back, the pain devouring his soul, he looked up at the ceiling. Almost glowing, a cross created by the intersection of support rafters pulsated as it floated. With each thrust, with each shred of dignity being stripped away from him at an alarming rate, more crosses appeared. He must have done something to deserve this, but he did not know what. Brad closed his tear filled eyes just to escape their laughing, their judging, until it was over. Haphazardly put back together, Brad ran through the streets. Waves of nausea clenched him, caught in the undertow of confusion and madness. They were all staring at him, each of them with their dirty bodies and dirty thoughts, all just waiting for him to give up. The crosses appeared everywhere, he could not avoid them. Each one an attack on his being, each threatening to destroy him, as Big Joe just had. He hated them all; he knew their game now. As they laughed at him, his vision blurred from sickness, the world seemed to close in on him, making it hard to breathe. Ignoring the burning of his lungs, the pleading of his heart to halt, he couldn't stop. Feeling more dirty than he had ever felt before, he needed to get home no matter how many obstacles blocked his way. Fumbling for his keys, he ran up the stairs to his apartment. Inside he felt no afer than outside; yet, he was away from those filthy creatures that crawled everywhere. In the quiet, the sound of scratching started. He gripped his hair. Tears fell again, streaming down his face, clogging his sinuses. With a quick hard turn of the faucet, hot water flowed from the polished metal spigot. The harder he washed the louder the scratching got, the complete opposite of the usual remedy. The final straw had been pulled. Withdrawing his hands from the scalding water, he stomped over to the door, the source of the unnerving sound. Never having taken his medication, he felt suddenly in control. Unlocking it, he threw it open with a mighty smash. Flicking the switch, fluorescent light flooded the pantry. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The sound grew louder. His mother had been right. Women were evil--every last one of them. Lifting the lid of the long white freezer, the scratching stopped just like he knew it would. Exactly like he left her two years ago, his mother, face frozen in a display of fright, lay pale white and ice covered. He had to admire the lengths to which she went to keep him safe from the clutches of those that only sought to harm him. Yet, she lost in the end, succumbing to her own impurity, when she cheated on his father with Big Joe. She thought it was a well-kept secret, a secret he had denied until now; she was wrong. As guilty as the rest, she had needed to be punished, just like the bible said. He couldn't stop the tears as he ran his sleeve under his running nose. Closing the lid, he realized that his mother was only half right. In his bedroom, he picked up his bible, the same bible that his mother had ripped pages out of, hiding the truth about the Garden of Eden and the urge of sin. Lies. It was all lies. Against the wall, the binding splintered from the force of the throw. He had enough. Not only just the women that roamed this planet lived to torture and destroy the lives of those so innocent. Everyone had some of that evil in them, some of that dirt and grime that only functioned to hurt. No one was safe from the grip of evil. Not even himself, he now realized. It was time to prepare. An hour passed, and in that hour Brad cleaned his apartment, making sure that everything was in order. Staring into the bathroom mirror, he stopped crying. Bent on revenge, he meant to finish this, see it through to the end. And as he gazed upon his reflection, he knew he could be just as corrupted as the rest. Something had to be done. On his forehead, a faint cross glowed. Now he knew their meaning, held all the answers that had eluded him for so long. Satisfied, he noted that not one thing was out of its place, except the shower curtain. The vinyl smell wafted up to his nose as he placed it on the ground in front of the bathroom sink. No use making another mess. After all, cleanliness was right next to godliness. © Doug Rinaldi . March 1999 HofP |