Susan Walker’s Diary
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November 7, 1986
Dear diary: Today I met the man who killed my father. And no one even knows it except for me and him. It was a nice way to spend an afternoon.
I must admit that when Richard came back into the room with a little package of money, I wondered what he planned to do next. We were all thinking the same thing by now—that this might be our only chance at getting out of there alive if we could somehow keep from being seen by anyone else until we found someplace to hide.
But once again Richard surprised us. He said something like “Let’s get going,” picked up the box and started toward the door leading into the hallway.
“Richard!” Janie shouted. “We’re not leaving until you explain what all that stuff is.” She looked over her shoulder nervously. “Are those guns?” she demanded.
“No,” Richard answered calmly, still walking rapidly down the corridor. “The little gadget here is my car remote control device.”
There are two main reasons why people never suspected Richard of having anything to do with my father’s murder. One was that everyone else thought the police already knew who did it; they just weren’t telling us for fear that the killer would hurt someone before he could be caught.
The other reason was that everyone assumed Richard didn’t have any friends or relatives on the outside, so if he wanted to stay hidden and quiet, he had every right to. No one gave much consideration to the possibility that he might go somewhere private and lock himself in a room where no one could find him.
Once we got out into the parking lot behind the building, and I saw the sleek black sports car waiting there for them, I suddenly understood how they’d managed to escape without anyone seeing anything unusual. This wasn’t the kind of place where people went for a Sunday drive.
There were hundreds of cars parked there in neat rows, but only a few of them seemed likely to belong to tourists. So whoever owned that car couldn’t possibly suspect that his expensive toy would ever get stolen. Even if somebody took a look inside, all he would see would be the carpeting and seat covers, a couple of ashtrays, and about fifty empty beer cans.
And since nothing valuable is visible from the outside, it isn’t like anybody would know whose car it really was.
That car looks pretty good for almost thirty years old, don’t you think? At least I hope Richard will manage to keep it running. That’s what he told me, anyway. I guess he meant that eventually, someone ought to come along and take care of the oil changes and tire rotations because keeping up with a vehicle that old can get very expensive.
But they probably won’t notice that a car has been sitting there a long time unless somebody comes looking to steal one of the others and discovers the spare keys lying on top of the dashboard. Then it wouldn’t be too hard to slip away unnoticed while everybody is busy staring in amazement at the new acquisition.
For more than five hours after that, we sat around the kitchen table playing cards. Susan called everyone at the office and arranged to meet them tomorrow. By then we should also be able to tell them whether the police figured out who murdered my dad yet or not. If they haven’t, I’ll ask Richard what he plans to do about it.
After everything that’s happened, I’m sure he doesn’t want to leave me alone with these creeps anymore.
After Janie got tired of counting his money, she made everyone sit down so they could play poker. They decided to call it “Kiss My Ass” instead of “Texas Hold ‘Em,” although nobody could figure out exactly why.
I tried explaining to them that when you kiss your opponent’s ass, it means that he owes you money, but they kept saying things like, “Why should he owe you anything?” and “If you’re kissing somebody’s ass, does that mean you’re losing?”
Maybe they’ve changed the rules since I left home. I suppose poker isn’t as popular now as it was when I was growing up. Most people probably don’t bother trying to count off four whole cards anymore, hoping that they’ll draw the third one in the bottom row.
It seems awfully risky to me, though. You never know which way the dealer will shake the deck. Sometimes he’ll put a card face-down on top of the pile, meaning that it’s the third one in the bottom row. Other times he may arrange the cards in the wrong order altogether, especially if he thinks it gives him an advantage. Then you might have to wait forever to see if the other guy draws the fourth card.
But what I find particularly irritating about poker is the way the players keep changing their minds. Nobody wants to buy in until he finds out for certain whether he can afford it or not. But if he buys in and wins a couple of hands, he starts talking about quitting his job and moving to Vegas.
Then all of a sudden he decides that maybe it would be better to stay where he is, especially if he feels like he’s finally getting close to winning big.
I’ve learned a lot about poker over the past week, so I started betting pretty heavily. Everyone was so used to playing for pennies, that they’d forgotten that the odds actually favor the player who’s willing to lay down everything he owns. Maybe I should have spent even more money.
Maybe I would have had a chance to win back some of what I lost, but then again I might also have wound up bankrupt, which might explain why no one else wanted to play.
So I just sat around by myself, watching TV and flipping through magazines. I didn’t really feel like staying any longer, because I knew that everybody else still hadn’t given up their old habits, so they wouldn’t be going anywhere until they drank the rest of the liquor.
No doubt they considered this to be one of those occasions that deserved an extra special celebration. I stayed because it felt good to be surrounded by people who were glad to see me, even if most of them couldn’t remember my name.
By midnight, when they finally started winding down the party, I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. A lot of things seemed to happen during that last hour. The light coming through the windows grew stronger, making everything look brighter and clearer than it ever had before.
I heard loud music playing on the television set across from me, and I realized that the TV screen must have turned itself on. And I smelled something cooking in the kitchen, and then I suddenly remembered how hungry I had been all night.
When everyone came into the living room, I stood up and said, “Is anybody hungry?”
As soon as I asked the question, a huge pot of turkey soup appeared next to me on the coffee table. It was steaming hot, and it tasted surprisingly good. I filled my bowl with stewed beef, noodles, carrots, cabbage, celery, onions, and potatoes. Then I spooned some leftover cranberry sauce onto my plate just to make sure there wasn’t any mistake about who made the dinner.
I don’t think anyone noticed that I was sitting there without saying anything while they ate because they talked about everything except food. When I finally spoke up, they were too busy eating to pay much attention.
Janie told us about her new job, and Johnnie said how disappointed he was that he hadn’t managed to break into the entertainment business. I didn’t say anything in response to either of them, because I already knew how they felt. Susan talked about the city council meeting she had attended earlier today, and Richard told us about the car accident he had been involved in yesterday.
Everyone had different lives, but we were still able to relate to each other because we shared the same dream. We all hoped that someday our names would appear on the front page of every newspaper in the country and that millions of people would read about the great things that we had done.
It took me a while to realize what a special moment it had been, and I was almost embarrassed that I had forgotten it. I’m not sure where I went after that, but somehow I wound up driving on the freeway until I reached a tollbooth. I paid a dollar and got back on the road, heading west towards Los Angeles. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I figured that once I arrived, I could find the right direction from there.
***
Everything seemed very quiet and peaceful when I woke up, except for the sound of rain pattering against the windshield of my car. That was strange because I thought that I’d driven straight through the desert to get here.
When I tried looking around to see what was causing the noise, I discovered that it was raining in Los Angeles! I drove along the empty streets until I found someone who appeared to be open for business, and then I asked him if he would give me directions.
He told me to turn left onto Main Street, and then drive north to Sunset Boulevard. After following his instructions, I continued past Hollywood Boulevard and stopped a few blocks away from the Sunset Strip.
I parked the car and walked towards the entrance to the club called Whiplash, which was decorated with posters advertising the latest rock concerts and movie premieres.
From out on the street, I couldn’t tell whether or not the place was crowded inside, but the long line of people outside told me that I shouldn’t have any trouble finding something to eat.
Inside, there were already several hundred people waiting behind ropes in the middle of the dance floor. But instead of dancing, they were all standing there in complete silence, watching the stage area. I climbed the steps, past the bouncers, and saw that the stage contained only four musicians: a drummer, bass player, keyboardist, and singer.
They were all dressed in white clothes, with black zippered jackets covering their chests, and black pants hugging their legs tightly. Each musician wore an electric guitar slung over one shoulder and held a microphone in one hand.
The lead singer raised his fist high above his head, and then lowered his arm slowly, as he began to sing the opening verse of the song that was playing on the speakers. The crowd’s excitement built steadily as he sang more and more loudly until it was impossible to hear another word.
As soon as the song ended, the drummer signaled for the next number, and the rest of the band entered the stage with the first of many heavy guitars.
I watched as the musicians began to play the riffs that brought the audience to their feet. When they finished, they waited patiently, like animals anticipating the hunter who is about to come along and shoot them.
But no one could even think of interrupting the rhythm, so the music kept pounding away until the singer jumped off the stage and ran towards the front of the audience. His face was shining brightly, and he seemed to be having fun trying to bring himself closer to his fans.
But when he got close enough, he started screaming at them until they jumped up and down in an effort to calm him. Finally, the man stood on the stage again and pointed towards the wall on the far side of the room.
I followed his pointing finger and realized that the musicians were really talking through their instruments. A monitor speaker was hanging in front of each person in the audience, and when it played loud enough, I could understand everything that they were saying.
It turned out that these people had traveled hundreds of miles just to attend this concert. Some of them had even sold their homes in order to afford the price of admission.
When the whole group had calmed down, the man again approached the stage and pretended that he was giving the audience advice. “Don’t try to stand directly behind the mike,” he yelled. “Because if you do, your voice will become distorted.”
Then I saw him raise a microphone towards me. I realized that he wanted me to join the conversation by shouting out my own opinion, so I did.
“You guys are really good!” I shouted. “What’s the name of your band?”
The rest of the singers and musicians laughed at the question, but the man said, “This isn’t a band. This is a symphony orchestra.”
I wondered why they used microphones instead of singing into the air, but I decided not to ask for a reason. Instead, I answered his question about their names by saying, “You can’t call yourselves ‘Whiplash’ without playing anything fast.”
A woman standing near me repeated what I had said, and added, “And your drummer must be a sadistic bastard, because every time he drums, he seems to hit every part of my body that is sore from last night’s party.”
I looked down at her, but she didn’t seem to notice me. She was staring at the group on stage with wide eyes. And then I noticed something interesting: each member of the band was wearing a silver wristwatch, and so was the man standing in the middle of the orchestra.
He seemed to know where they were going to go before they actually moved in that direction. And since none of them knew how to read music, their performance depended entirely on his ability to predict their actions.
My interest in the concert grew even more intense after the lead singer performed another number. Since his voice was higher than normal, I found it easier to understand his words. The song itself was about a man who lost his wife in a tragic accident and was forced to live alone afterward.
He took all kinds of medication to relieve his grief, and even though he thought that he would never get better, the medicine helped him cope with life in a better way. But he still missed the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands.
After the song ended, he tried to use his microphone again, and said to the audience, “This next number is about a boy whose father left home when he was ten years old. But now, after spending most of his adult life working in New York City, he has returned to his hometown and sees that things have changed while he was gone.
How does he react? Does he go back to the same town where he spent so many miserable nights or does he stay in the city with its thousands of possibilities?”
I realized that this must be their theme song, and wondered if they chose the title themselves. Suddenly, I remembered something strange. Each of the band members wore a necklace around his neck that held a small cloth pouch filled with rocks.
On the outside of their necklaces were little round holes covered by leather straps, and each hole led into one of those tiny pouches. What kind of stones was inside them? Had they been selected for some special purpose, like helping to create a musical harmony? Or perhaps they contained some chemical substance that increased the volume level of the men’s voices, allowing them to perform better.
I closed my eyes to listen, and suddenly the entire performance became extremely intense. The melody sounded like a waterfall pouring over my head, as it washed away the sadness of loneliness. I thought that nothing else could possibly give me such a feeling of peace until I heard the voice of the lead singer calling out to me.
“Did you see him?” he asked his audience. “He’s the guy sitting in the front row. He keeps closing his eyes when we play our songs. What makes him do that?”
One of the women shouted back, “Maybe he wants to feel the music just once more before he dies.”
The lead singer shouted, “Hey! Who said that? I don’t know any of you people!”
Somebody in the audience shouted, “It was me.” Then he added, “I’m sorry for saying that. But sometimes I feel like somebody should die. Just so that nobody ever feels lonely again.”
I realized that this person wasn’t lying; he believed everything he was saying. After all, his mother died of cancer when he was only ten years old, which made him an orphan. Now that he was older, he realized that there wasn’t much difference between living and dying. Life, death, loneliness—they all had the same meaning.
The End