The Groundskeeper (Part 1)

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



NOTE FROM IVY:
The following story will be published in three parts. Part 2 will arrive in September, Part 3 in November.

Brace yourself...



In my nightmare, he begins as a dot in the distance, a speck in a white void. The surrounding scene floods in like a rapid perspective sketch on a blank sheet of paper. From the focal point, the horizon line spreads in both directions, then the blue sky appears in paintbrush strokes, the green fairway, the sand traps and rough patches, and finally the symmetrical trees on either side. It’s been said we dream in black and white, but I see the colors. He’s coming for me, and if I try to hide he’ll find me. I start to run and I look back and the speck is bigger, galloping, advancing. He’s coming for me and I can’t get away. He’s riding a horse that’s not a horse; it’s a man on all fours. The man-horse is drooling and blasting snot from its nostrils. It’s dragging two dead bodies; one is the body of a child. I continue running at the doomed pace of nightmares, and as I run, I can see my picture on the cover of the Philadelphia Inquirer. Hundreds of copies of the paper are swirling around the fairway. Despite myself, I turn to look and he’s right behind me – so close I can feel the sprays of snot on the back of my neck. I fall to the fetal position and bury my face in my hands. I wait for the pain. But suddenly there’s nothing, no sound. I wait and wait but there’s still no sound. I can’t bear to look, but I know I have to. I have to get it over with. Finally, through my fingers, I see him soundlessly beating the man-horse to death with a golf club. I know I’m next but I can’t get away. I try to move, but I’m frozen. I can’t close my fingers; I’m forced to watch. The man-horse’s teeth shatter, its skull explodes, its eyes are gouged and then sadistically chipped on the green. I know I’m next and the moments watching are the most excruciating. He turns toward me and runs at me, arms raised, club cocked. An instant before the first strike, I wonder what it will feel like to die like this.

I’m 70 now. I write things down to help me remember, and I write because I have little else to do. I have no one to talk to, not even a half-interested neighbor. So I write, and today I wrote in my journal:

There’s something about the idea of circumstance that fascinates me. I see a person on the road and I say hello and maybe they say hello back. This person can just as easily be my best friend as my worst enemy, it all depends on the circumstance.

I choose now to write about what happened simply because it passes the time. I’m not writing for redemption or even a basic need to understand. I’m writing to pass the time.

I used to golf in a foursome with Butch Plude and his brothers. This was back in 1970, when I actually golfed. You’d know Plude if you were from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. He was a realtor who’d owned three quarters of the town. He was considered more politically powerful – and certainly more connected – than our mayor. He was a friendly sort, always well informed, a bit of a busybody. You’d run into him at Dell’s Market or the Post Office and he’d smile his friendly smile and shake your hand and ask about your health. He’d know your favorite movie and remember the name of your dog, or sadly grip your shoulder if there was a recent death in the family. There was something studied about him, though. Disingenuous. You’d watch his eyes and realize his main concern was not the detail he was asking about, but rather his ability to retrieve additional details from his memory. He was good at it.

Prior to 1950, Truth or Consequences was known as Hot Springs. Tourist trade, which wasn’t booming to begin with, was pretty much the city’s only industry. People sought the town’s sunshine and natural hot mineral baths. I suppose the city considered Hot Springs too common a name. (In fairness to those involved, it certainly was, and is – over 30 towns in California alone share the name.) So the city decided to take seriously Ralph Edwards’s preposterous proposal to Anytown, USA: change your name to the name of my popular NBC radio program. Butch Plude got the word and got excited. He reasoned here was a golden opportunity to advertise the city and its resources free of charge. As the most active and popular board member of the New Mexico State Tourist Bureau, and as the sole manager of the Hot Springs Chamber of Commerce, he was instrumental in stirring up excitement and eventually sparking the name change. At the time, roughly 1,600 people lived in Hot Springs. After a tireless campaign by Plude in the face of what initially seemed like an insurmountable level of resistance, just shy of a whopping 1,300 people voted for the name change. Among other things, Butch Plude had certainly been a man of influence.

My involvement with him began soon after my move to Truth or Consequences around the holidays of 1968. I was 40 at the time, never married, estranged from my family, and drawn to the town when I realized I could own a modest home for a mere $8,000.00. I’d moved from a one-bedroom apartment in Philadelphia, where years earlier I’d earned my law degree from Temple. I’d spent those years working as a defense attorney at a small firm. By choice, I’d lived a secluded life, and entertained myself by reading books checked out from the library and spending what time I could writing a science fiction novel called "Galaxy Runners." When Star Wars was released in 1977, I abandoned the idea with more than a sense of regret and a vague notion of betrayal. For a long time afterward, I was fond of describing how the movie was eerily similar to my novel-in-progress, but the truth is, aside from some space battles and a character named Luke, they were nothing alike. Quite honestly, I lacked the discipline and imagination – and a fundamental connectedness to my surroundings – to make even a passable novelist. I’d chosen science fiction because I’d felt it was a realm suitable to hiding my inexperience and inherent coldness. Characters are characters, though, and without authenticity and a basis in reality, my situations seemed all the more contrived. At the time, I’d kid myself into thinking it was only a matter of time before I’d break through. The thought would sustain me and make my loneliness bearable. I’d always have a number of projects in the works – stories, one-act plays, non fiction pieces of interest to practicing attorneys and law school students. It created a comfortable illusion of potential for me. It was much easier to feel I had it in me to be a great writer – and simply lacked the time or the luck or the right connections – than to feel like the talent was beyond my capabilities.

I’d dated infrequently in Philadelphia, and poorly on those few occasions, finding it near impossible to relax or feel as if a date was somewhere I actually wanted to be. My interests were incompatible with the few women who’d agreed to go out with me. In New Mexico, I’d found it easier to be with women. On the whole, they were quieter and less ambitious. A woman I’d liked quite a bit was named Molly Knowles. During our second date, she told me she had a four-year-old named Meg who was mentally retarded. I wasn’t able to handle it. I did make a half-assed attempt, but I’d been too self-absorbed to know how to behave with a retarded child. Meg would rock back and forth and make loud sounds and it made me extremely uncomfortable. I didn’t have the decency to say anything to Molly. I just stopped returning her calls and let myself fade away.

How You Want It

Directions Relayed by Ivy Dillinger



You will be led into a room without windows. You will be told to stand at attention. You will be asked to clear your mind. You will then be told to think of the letter B. "Think of nothing else," you'll be told. "Just the letter B." The B will try to eject a curve from its bottom corner; it will try to make itself into an R. You will be told to not let this happen. "Under no circumstances let this happen," you'll be told. If it does happen, there will be swift castigation.

You don't want it up, sticking out. You want it tucked in, safe.

Now let's see if you can keep it how you want it.