Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (12 page)

“May I take your order?”

“Fuck off.”

I run through Produce, shouting, “Stop!”

At this time of night, hardly anyone is shopping. A young man looks up from a bin of apples and stares at me through a haze of legal marijuana.

I chase my imaginary customer out the front door, into the parking lot.

My plan unfolds as intended. I hear Terri’s footsteps on the pavement behind me.

I run faster, in hot pursuit of the imaginary customer.

At the far end of the parking lot I see someone entering a car. It’s too dark to tell if it’s a man or a woman, but it doesn’t matter. As the car moves out onto the street, I point at the taillights.

“That’s him!”

“Who?”

I stop running, allow Terri catch up with me.

“The guy!”

“What did he do?”

“He threw a shopping cart into the baler.”

“What?”

I’m glad it’s dark out here, so Terri can’t get a good view of my face. Despite the Xanax I’ve taken, my right eye is twitching.

I speak slowly, carefully forming each word, because my tongue feels like a kosher pickle. “He. Threw. A. Shopping. Cart. Into. The. Baler.”

Terri looks at me askew. I’m not sure she buys my story.

Trying to convince her, I say, “He. Snuck. Past. Me. Wh—”

“Why are you talking like that? Have you been drinking?”

“No!” Forcing my sluggish tongue to move, my story spills out in a jumble, “Isawhimleavethe
employeeonly
areaandIranafterhim.”

As the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake: if I ran after him when I saw him leave the
employee only
area, how did I know about the shopping cart?
I wouldn’t have seen the cart.
Hoping Terri hasn’t noticed my big fat lie, I amend the story.

A rush of adrenaline unleashes my tongue. “Before I ran after him, I went in back and checked the baler—that’s when I saw the shopping cart and—”

Ignoring me, Terri rushes through the parking lot, headed for the store’s entrance. I hear her muttering, “I’ve got to get that damned cart out of the baler.”

Wendy and Doreen greet us at the entrance.

“What happened?”

“What’s going on?”

“Go back to work,” Terri tells them.

I’m on Terri’s heels, congratulating myself for my brilliant plan. A few minutes from now, my competition will be crushed. I follow her through Produce, stay close behind her as we pass through Deli, remain in hot pursuit when we hit Bakery. We duck through the panel door, hurry past the freight elevator to the baler.

“What the—”

Terri stares, in shock.

I couldn’t be more delighted.

The shopping cart is suspended, seemingly in midair, lodged between flattened cardboard boxes and the ceiling of the chamber.

Terri grabs the cart and attempts to yank it from the baler.

The cart doesn’t budge.

“How the hell am I supposed to get it out?”

“Climb inside?” I offer.

“I guess.” She glances at me. “Give me a boost.”

“Sure.”

I lace my hands together, ready to receive Terri’s foot. My heart beats double time, as I imagine her climbing into the chamber, imagine myself grabbing the stepstool so I can reach the handle of the feed gate and pull it down, locking Terri inside. Then I’ll press the button and initiate the crush. The shopping cart’s metal basket will dig into her body, cutting her flesh into squares, as her blood spills onto the cardboard. Her screams won’t last long, but I’ll keep screaming until someone else shows up.

My plan is unfolding perfectly.

I grab the stool, climb onto it.

Terri, glances at me.

“Where’d you get the stepstool?”

“Behind the—”

“Never mind. Help me get this cart out.”

I reach for the handle of the feed gate, ready to lower the grate, when I realize my fatal flaw:
The mystery customer won’t be found guilty for Terri’s death
.
I will.
Mr. Mystery is long gone; no way could he have pressed the deadly button. Plus, because I created a commotion, Wendy and Doreen are witnesses. They can verify the timing.

Dumb, dumb, dumb!

Heartbroken, I help Terri heave the basket from the baler.

“Move, Sadie. Let me use the stool.”

I step down, in a daze.

Until Terri says, “Don’t stand there gawking. Finish emptying the trash.”

Penis, penis, penis, penis, penis.

Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls.

Vagina.

I wake up with these words running through my head, devoid of meaning, like disconnected body parts. A residue of Xanax coats my brain, but that doesn’t stop me from downing another.

When I open the bedroom closet, I see the power drill, its tip red with blood that I neglected to wash off. The chainsaw isn’t in its usual place. Strange. I wade through my collection of running shoes, cross-trainers, hiking boots, tennis shoes (I don’t really play tennis) and high heels I seldom wear, even search behind my winter Sorel’s. A chainsaw isn’t easily misplaced, but mine is missing.

An image surfaces. I’m not sure if it’s a dream or a memory. I’m on my bicycle, bumping along the path with the chainsaw in the basket. No streetlights, just the moon. My bike light blinks along the pavement.

Balls, balls, balls
.

The image fades and my stomach growls, reminding me that last night I neglected to eat dinner.

Barefoot, I pad to the kitchen, stand in front of the refrigerator examining the contents. Half a container of expired almond milk, a shriveled peach, a plastic container that used to hold Chia seeds and now holds what appears to be a penis.

Nothing I feel like eating.

I open the freezer, half-expecting to find a head, take out a container of cookie dough ice cream and carry the container into the living room. A picture window overlooks the courtyard, and I have a fine view of the jungle gym and swings, but it’s too early for children to be playing.

Vagina, vagina, vagina.

Penis, penis, penis.

Last night, after the incident (or non-incident) with Terri and the baler, I received another phone call from my father, and I made the mistake of answering. He spent ten minutes telling me only imbeciles, Negroes, and ex-cons work in supermarkets, then he accused my mother of sleeping with Obama.

“She’s dead, Dad. If she screwed any presidents it would have to be George Senior.”

“She’s too young for Washington.”

“Bush.”

“Bush? You mean cherry tree. Don’t they teach you anything in school?”

After that enlightening conversation, I rode home as usual, my frustration growing with each turn of the pedals. All my careful planning had been for nothing; the entire evening added up to a giant fiasco. I pedaled past the science museum (people wearing robot gear, drinking cocktails), flew past the library (closed for the night), then circled back to Happy Valley, the old folk’s home. They call it independent living. What a joke. Old people get stuck in those places because they need help. I tried to get my dad to sign up, but he claims he’s too independent for independent living, says he’ll only consider moving in if the aides are topless. I told him, these days, a lot of aides are men, and he lost interest.

A lot of things aren’t what they claim to be.

This ice cream, for example, is more full of crap than guys I’ve met online: Maltodextrin, Cellulose Gel, Mono and Diglycerides. We live in a world where they package partially hydrogenated soybean oil, mask it with artificial flavors, and call it ice cream. The sad thing is we’re dumb enough to buy it. We’re all deluded, like that old lady last night, sitting on a bench by the entrance of the old folks’ home, imagining she’s living independently.

I eat another bite of ice cream, ignoring that it’s crammed with corn products. Sometimes I don’t notice the taste of chemicals, sometimes this junk actually tastes good, but right now it’s coating my tongue with cold bitterness.

Looking out at the courtyard, I gaze into a canopy of trees, and I feel peaceful—thinking about that old lady—until a tapping sound breaks my revelry. High heels clip along the cement path, and I see Lisa, dressed for work. She cuts across the lawn to the row of mailboxes, unlocks her box, and removes a few envelopes. Lisa is old enough to remember when the mail might have brought a letter, but now, like most of us, all she can expect is catalogues and bills.

My heart accelerates when I see Marcus. He walks across the courtyard with Caramel. Bending toward his daughter, he reaches for her hand. She’s wearing a purple dress and purple sneakers. A purple headband holds her dark hair in place. They glance at my apartment and Caramel waves.

I step back from the window—draw the new, red, stain-resistant curtains.

The ice cream has melted. I dump the remains of fake cream, bits of cookie dough, and chocolate into the kitchen sink.

Sometimes I wish I were a robot. A robot wouldn’t need to eat. And a robot wouldn’t have this headache.

Penis, penis, penis.

My cell phone is ringing.

I know it’s Marcus. I assigned him a special ringtone: “Sympathy for the Devil.” The song is old, but the title’s suitable for our relationship.

“Hello, Dr. Archuleta.”

“How are you, Sadie?”

“Okay, I guess.” I don’t mention the chainsaw is missing and I ate almost a half gallon of fake ice cream, so I feel like I’m going to puke.

“Did you get my messages?”

I pull the empty container from the trash, run my finger around the rim.

“Sadie, you still there?”

“Yeah.” I suck cream from my finger, run my front tooth under the nail.

“Have you felt any effect from the Xanax?”

“I think I need a stronger dose.”

“It may take a couple of weeks. Any more heart palpitations or trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ve arranged for you to take an EKG to rule out heart problems, and I’d like you to make an appointment with my office, so we can talk. Will you do that?”

“Talk? About what?”

The energy that runs between us is electric, so intense my phone feels hot. Our brains share the same motherboard, the same programming. I wonder how much information he’s uploaded about me. I need to see if he accepted my invitation for us to be Facebook friends.

After a long pause, he says, “Talk about your treatment, Sadie. And what’s making you so anxious. Do you need the number for my office?”

He recites it.

“You will make an appointment, won’t you?”

“Promise.”

He clicks off.

Penis, penis, penis.

Vagina, vagina.

I open the refrigerator, stare at the near empty shelves, then I reach for the jar that used to contain Chia seeds.

Since I’m up early (a lot of days, I sleep in), and I don’t need to go to work for a few hours, I decide to jump into my painting project and start with the living room ceiling. The super lends me a ladder and helps me lug it up the stairs, but I don’t invite her into my apartment, because I don’t want her to see the stains.

“You’re painting the ceiling pink?”

“Not pink,
Smoky Salmon
. The walls will be
Red Obsession
.”

She’d suggested
Bone
to me. I don’t think she approves of red, but I own the place.

I drag the ladder through the door and set it in the middle of the living room where I’ve laid out the new tarps
.
I pour paint into the pan, dip the roller, climb the ladder, and take a few swipes at the ceiling when someone knocks on my door. Probably the super, wanting to convince me to rethink my color scheme, but
Smoky Salmon
is covering well; one coat and I can barely detect the kid’s blood.

Knock, knock, knock.

Whoever’s out there is persistent.

“Mrs. Bardo?”

A man’s voice.

Bardo is my dead husband’s last name. Italian.

Knock, knock, knock.

This guy isn’t giving up.

I climb down from the ladder, peek through the door’s peephole, and see two cops in uniform. My breath catches in my throat. I consider running to the bathroom, downing a handful of Xanax and a few Dilaudid.

The cops knock again.

“Yes?” I call through the door, my voice high and weak.

“We’d like to speak to you.”

They flash their badges.

If I say no, chances are they’ll show up again—perhaps at a less opportune time. I consider dropping the paint roller, running to my bedroom, and climbing down the balcony, but chances are I’d fall and break my neck. If I still had the chainsaw there might be another option, but I don’t think the power drill would do the job fast enough.

“Of course,” I say. “Hold on.”

Using one hand, because I’m still holding the roller, I undo the locks, undo the chain and open the door. One cop is about my age, his dark hair has a touch of gray at the temples. He looks familiar, and then I realize that he showed up when I called 911. I have no recollection of his name. The other cop must be a rooky. He looks about fifteen years old, and he’s trying to sprout a mustache. His skin is brown, and he’s got the round face of a Southern Ute.

“May we come in?”

I open the door wider.

Their eyes move to drops of
Smoky Salmon
on the entryway’s tile.

“Painting?” the older cop asks.

“Yes.”

I switch the roller from my left hand to my right. Then, I get confused and switch it back. I’m trying to remember which hand I used to throw the stone. Or maybe the cops are here for another reason. Maybe they’re investigating the college kid’s disappearance. I glance at the wall, glad to see the blood stains from my recent escapade are hidden by the pictures I neglected to remove.

The younger cop jots notes on a small pad.

I ask, “Would you like a glass of water or something?” Remembering the contents of the Chia jar, I immediately regret asking.

Luckily, they say, No thanks.

“That’s Sadie Bardo, isn’t it?” the younger one asks. “B-A-R-R?”

“One R,” I correct him, “D-O. My husband’s grandfather came from Sicily.”