Devil in the Details
“Ah, ah— don’t interrupt, please,” the man admonished his guest, finger wagging.
The clipped words fell tersely from the man’s mouth, followed by an exasperated sigh, as he pushed his horn rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, immaculate lenses glinting in the darkly lit cabin that rose and fell gently with the waves.
And then, “Let me finish.” Silence.
“Now, where was I?” He continued, cocking his head as he tried to remember.
“Ah yes— My. Life. Story.”
The words were drawn out torturously long as he leaned forward in the settee, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together.
“How’s this: I grew up in a little town called Cardiff-by-the-Sea, a beautiful town with beautiful people. My parents’ house overlooked the ocean— a view to die for, one might say. My brother was a hotshot doctor, my sister a hotshot nurse. My younger brother a hotshot lawyer. And me? Well, I was hotshot-of-Jack-squat. I flunked undergrad, failed various business ventures but, as my parents always said, ‘Joe, you just couldn’t hack it.’ Nothing I did was ever good enough for them, you know?”
The man paused the story for a moment, blinking thoughtfully as he raised up slightly in his seat.
“Nothing,” he drew out slowly, voice rising through gritted teeth, “was ever, enough!”
His hands, balled into fists, swung down onto the tops of his thighs at the last word, hard enough to leave marks. He shuddered out his next breath, which seemed to settle him. Teeth ground against each other before jaws, at last, unclenched.
Then the man looked pointedly at his guest, finger stabbed in his direction.
“You’re gonna love this part.”
“So,” he continued, “I decided to stay at the marina up in Dana Point, on the family boat— ‘La Reina,’” the man purred with no accent.
“And along with the boat came the booze and the babes. I embraced my ‘Jack-squat’ nature and got hammered every night. I’d roll out of bed the next afternoon just to make myself a bloody mary— ‘hair of the dog’ and all that. Then I’d spend a few hours lazing about on the deck. I imagined what my parents would say if they saw me. Evenings I usually ended up at Breakwater. There I’d wet my whistle and see who wanted to come aboard. Finding women wasn’t hard, once they hear you’ve got a boat, it’s all smooth sailing.” The man licked his lips.
“Anyway, imagine my surprise, when one night, after getting kicked out of the bar, I stumbled onto the boat and found—“ the man paused, brows jutting together.
His voice began to break as he appeared to choke down a sob, shoulders wracking as he gasped out his words.
“I found—a woman— dead, in my cabin. Her head was—her limbs were—I-I recognized her, but I couldn’t remember her name.”
The man shut his eyes forcefully and tears escaped behind glass. He made a great show of falling into a wave of sorrow and raising his hands to cup his face.
At last, a few moments later, the guest spoke, breaking the spell of the production.
“Fu-ck, you,” he spat painfully, blood shining over broken teeth as he forced out the words from the cabin floor.
The man, upon hearing this, stilled before lowering his hands. His face was drawn into a grieved expression — a spitting image of a tragedy mask. A heartbeat later, he brought his hands up to reveal the mask turned upward into comedy.
“What’s wrong? Didn’t you like my performance?” The man asked in feigned offense, a dark lilt to his tone, lips still turned up in a malicious smile.
“Just kill me already, you fucking psychopath. Like you killed all those women.” The guest bit out, cheek pressed to the carpet of the lolling vessel, voice desperate, yet resigned. His hands had been tied behind him, tight chords cutting into skin as he lay on his side, powerless.
The man’s face drew into a pout as he began to entreat his guest.
“Didn’t I just show you I’m not a psychopath? I have empathy— get it? Joe, I was being you! The key to a good story is in the details. You’ve got to admit, I nailed it didn't I? ‘Breakwater Spirits’, ‘La Reina’? Wasn’t I convincing?”
The man’s face grew dark. “Wasn’t I, ‘good enough’?”
