By Diane Roy © 2004
At first she made mild suggestions that they go back. Being grown up and all, she thought polite people suggested and other polite people would respond to suggestions, but Hubert was still not there. Jennica was crying but Hubert couldn't even hear her. All he could do was clutch the wheel, eyes straight ahead and bloodshot. Silence prevailed in Hubert's ears as Jennica continued screaming. Honk!!! At a stoplight Hubert slammed on the breaks.
Finally breathing after speeding off the bridge Hubert was slapped with reality as Jennica's screams finally hit him. Panicked, he threw his hands over her mouth to silence her, but she wouldn't stop. Hubert turned into an alley and tried talking her down, saying everything would be alright, but Jennica just continued to stare at him as if he was crazy. She just wouldn't stop screaming and screaming and he grabbed her and held her tight and just rocked her back and forth. In reality it was about a minute but it seemed like an eternity and she was silent. Very silent. Hubert slowly detached himself from her, her skinny arms now limp, her eyes closed and set her down. Death didn't even begin to register. He just thought of how peaceful she looked. He poked her face; no reaction. He poked her again; no reaction. He sat back and slumped into his seat not sure of what to do next. That's when he saw it. The panties, poking out, almost smiling, winking really. He had already done the worst, he kidnapped and killed a little girl. Not knowing what, he did what he did best, he drove. He drove uptown. He figured that maybe he could go upstate and bury the body somewhere.
Right and wrong weren’t factors at the moment, just clear and unclear. Clearly he was in deep trouble and he needed out; he'd grieve later with that waitress he supposed. A hour later and the panties were still poking out, winking at him. Stuck in traffic they just lay there winking. Huberts eyes grew large and the panties seemed to loom towards him, his hand inching closer and closer to them. Finally two of his fingers touched them and suddenly the passenger door was open and Jennica was trying to get out. She wasn't dead after all and all Hubert could do was grab. The panties ripped in the struggle but Jennica got out and ran ahead. Something made Hubert stay. She wasn't dead, and he hadn't touched her (well, not really).
Something told Hubert to sit tight, lest he get into more trouble. She ran out onto the highway which wasn't moving anyway and she disappeared a couple cars down. It didn't register that perhaps she might tell the cops or that she would have to explain where she was when her parents discovered her missing. All that mattered was that she was gone and there was peace in the car again. By this time the panties were on Hubert's face, shielding it from the sun, but suddenly the heat from the sun stopped. Something was blocking it. Removing the panties from his eyes Hubert looked out of the driver's seat window and saw a navy blue uniform. "Excuse me sir, but are you Hubert Humbert of 225 West 161st?"
"Yes" Hubert replied.
"Step out of the car sir"
"What's this about?"
"Do you know anything about the accident up front?"
"Well I can tell you that I didn't cause it" Hubert laughed "What is this about?"
"Are you sure about that?"
"A little girl was hit by an oncoming vehicle"
"Oh my goodness!"
"Don't worry, she's okay, however there was something odd about her". The officer leered into the drivers seat and looked down at what Humbert was clutching dearly. Several other officers made their way towards the car. Beads of sweat were now turning into sheets of sweet on Humbert’s back, neck, and hand. Especially his hand.
" What was so odd about her?" Humbert asked meekly.
"She's missing her underwear."
Hubert sat exasperated and relieved in the chair. The room that the police had put him in was air conditioned and even though the outcome didn't seem all that great, he was cool at least for the time being. Jen hadn't gotten hit by car, at least not very hard, but she did cause a three car pile up when she frantically tried to flag down oncoming traffic. From what she told the police they figured that Hubert couldn't have gotten out of the traffic and after walking down the highway it was only a matter of time before they found him. Hubert had been right though, Jen had understood. She was scared but she didn't want Hubert to get in trouble, she just wanted to go home.
"I would have buried her nice," Hubert thought, with one arm cuffed to the chair. The police didn't see the need to have both hands tied back. Hubert had gone with no complaint, almost relieved. He wasn't a flight risk, so they didn't see any hurry. The girl was okay and the parents didn't want to drag this out. They took her home quietly and let their lawyer deal with it. The lawyer, penciled in the meeting with Hubert for 1 PM the next day- after his noon fuck with the secretary. He was always up and proper to crush any notion of a plea bargain. After ramming Sarah from behind on the copy machine, he'd be pumped to go straight for a conviction. And so it was, and Hubert ended up spending that night in jail. Quiet, the other inmates left him alone and Hubert curled up in a corner and fell asleep smiling. Hubert thought of Jen's smile. He really would have buried her real nice, maybe in a field in near Poughkeepsie. He was glad that she was alive, of course, but there had been a certain comfort in the peaceful look she had, laying limp in the passenger seat. He wanted her there, still, forever and forever his. All he wanted to do was smile, and as long as he pictured her face while he was curled up in the corner he was fine. Soon an eternity of this didn't seem so bad.
He was sure that lawyer would want the maximum conviction for kidnapping and Hubert wasn't sure if he even had the energy to say anything in his own defense. What would he say? That she made him happier than any woman could? How could he defend that? Besides, in jail he didn't have to work. If jail was like where he was now, all curled up and peaceful, thinking about Jennica for the next 5 to 10 years , it suddenly didn't seem so bad.
Across the room, a different story unfolded. Roran, up for parole, stared at the pathetic ball in the corner. "New fish," he thought, and Hubert turned his face slightly and the moonlight caught his grin. Roran just stared. Roran was in for suspicion of being involved in a couple of rapes in Central Park. Women knew not to go down there, but those office pricks thought that they could go anywhere as long as they were white. Closing a huge deal and the firm and a couple of martinis and you and the boys congratulated yourselves on being masters of the universe. All it took was a couple drinks to really believe that privilege because you were white and male and you hid your fagginess by fucking your wife in the ass after getting your dick sucked by Peter in the office. Roran didn't think so. Roran was no fag but he wasn't a pussy either. He knew the best way to make those office pricks know where they really stood. He wasn't satisfied with bending them over. A man knows that he's being raped when he's licking your asshole with a knife to his throat. Roran, unruffled and calm all day, was drunk with revenge. Sorting mail everday for the past eleven years, he silently hated the laughs behind his back because of his limp. The army had given him honorable discharge but he had lost a chip in his knee and control of his bowls in the plane accident. He had to wear a bag all day and sometimes it leaked, but always, always they laughed. They weren't laughing now were they? The reality was, that even though night after night, he would go out, masked, dressed in black and get them from behind in the park when they would make the drunk walk home, he felt better but not good. He felt powerful, less embarassed but still he never smiled. He hadn't smiled, not even faking it for going on a year now. He thought that his face would freeze in a grimace like his mother warned him. Looking over at Hubert in the corner, smiling, Roran felt that jealousy again. Soon Roran was back in the copy room and they were laughing again. Roran saw red, and his own perversions rose up from deep in his belly. It was like watching his life flash before his eyes. He saw the smelling of his hand when he wiped his ass, the wiping his face with a towel after using it on his genitals, the wiping of his bloody dick on the face of those corporate pricks and he watched himself in awe. He saw himself from outside, not from within and then he saw Hubert again, in the corner, smiling and Roran lost that outside perspective and rushed him. Hubert, that smiley faced goat was his and as usual Roran felt better as he usually did, when justice was dispatched.
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.