PSYCHO KILLER

lisa stathoplos Slay Me, My Hapless Darlings

PSYCHO KILLER

Cranking "Psycho Killer" by The Talking Heads

HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!!

“Help me, help me!!!!!”

Jesus Christ! I crank down the Talking Heads on TOS/Sugarloaf and slam on my brakes.

The heel of my hand makes a squeaking noise as I rub moisture from the driver’s side windshield and try to get a better look through the pounding rain at this crazy scene unfolding in front of my ’73 Subaru.  A woman — I think – just flew in front of my car and launched herself onto my hood!

What the hell?!

It’s past midnight. I’ve left rehearsal for Ibsen’s BRAND, soon to go up at UMaine/Orono’s Pavilion Theatre — a grad student’s doctoral thesis show — and I’ve got a twenty minute ride down a soggy Route Two to Bangor and home.

“Open the door! Let me in!”

She’s struggling with the handle now. Blind decisions are strange things. Without thinking, I reach over the passenger seat and push the door open. A bedraggled, soaking wet, and rather frumpy woman with short-cropped, mouse-brown hair wearing a ‘40s detective style, beige, overcoat and bearing an enormous rucksack, clambers in next to me. Instinct makes me cast a quick glance to my left and note the swirly, red and green neon sign of Pat’s Pizza  — hangout of every Theatre Major at UMaine — on Orono’s Mill Street. The colors are mixed and runny, distorted by the rain-soaked glass of my window. This instinct is quickly followed by another urging me to leap out of the car, go pound on Pat’s’ likely locked door, and leave this heap of a woman to fend for herself.

“Take me to Bucksport.”

She states this in a monotone while staring straight ahead and breathing heavily. A faintly rancid smell of something I can’t place pervades the interior. Both her hands are lodged in her dubious looking bag. I picture what might lurk there. Is she a Glock fan or more the former First Lady’s “just a little gun” type? I nervously slide the car into gear and begin to travel as fast as I dare on the rain-soaked street. I keep my side-eye on her as much as possible without swerving off Route Two into a tree — or the mighty Penobscot river.

I can’t take you to Bucksport; I’m going as far as Bangor. I’ll take you there.

The wipers make an ominous clicking sound.

“I need to go to Bucksport. Take me to Bucksport.”

Again, the monotone, her gaze focused on the windshield and her plump frame positioned unnervingly close to my stick-shift —  hence, to me. I lean closer to my door. I snag another look at her. I’ve seen her before. Holy crap, this is the odd woman I’ve noticed on campus for years! I’ve no idea if she’s a student — she seems far too old — or, something.

There’s lots of older students at Orono and a fairly diverse foreign student population but, whenever I saw her, something about her didn’t feel “right.” My vestigial instinct for personal safety kicked in.

Look, I’m going home — I’ll drop you at the corner of Broadway and State. I live on Broadway.

This is a lie. I live on Court Street off Hammond but, I’ll be damed if I’m gonna tell her that.

“I need to go to Bucksport.”

Yes, that seems clear. Well, friggin’ Bucksport is another thirty minutes from Bangor, honey, and there’s no way in hell I’m keeping you in my car. I’m trying to quiet my fearful mind and focus on strategies ahead. She’s pretty securely ensconced in the bucket seat next to me; her ferocious intent has a power bordering on insanity.

I’ve done dumb things in my life — gotten into vehicles I shouldn’t have, jumped out of vehicles I shouldn’t have — but, this choice, stopping my car on this night rivaling the night of the Johnstown Flood and letting this clearly disturbed woman climb in, is keepin’ it fresh. I mean, she fairly leapt onto my hood! Who does that?

We hit the town of Veazie — if you can call it a town  — and just as quickly are back in the black night and drenching rain on the famously snakelike and slippery Route Two. She begins rummaging in her outsized canvas bag. My heart’s racing; she’s no Mary Poppins. Well, this is it, I guess. I wait for the feel of cold steel on my ribcage.

I could stress eat more than spoonfuls of sugar right now.

Maybe she’ll whip out a magnificent tapestry-shaded standing lamp!

She’s still fumbling through her pack as I grip the steering wheel, holding on for dear life. She pipes up again.

“You’re gonna take me to Bucksport. I need to get there tonight. Now.”

Jesus. I flash on a memory of her one evening in the huge girl’s bathroom of the Memorial Union. As I walked in, she was sitting on the windowsill staring blankly at the stalls. If I hadn’t needed to pee badly I would have high-tailed it out. Other times, I’d see her trudging through the UMaine campus — one day near Deering Hall, the next, over by Shibles. Shibles Hall. Right near the creatively named English/Math Building. Where British Drama Professor Brucher — a Central Casting dead ringer for the quintessential sexy English professor, complete with pipe puffing out swirls of cherry tobacco and a voluminous, gorgeous mustache — caused ample ache in the pulsing loins of young co-eds. Then I’d spy her on the green of the mall, eyes cast down, muttering to her patient and invisible companion. One day she was hunkered on the floor with her back against the long windows of Little Hall where I had a bunch of Psych classes. I became obsessed. Who is she? Why is she on campus? I’ve never seen her go to a class or in a class. It’s a large university but, still. Something about her made the hair on the back of my neck tingle.

Maybe I should take more Psych classes.

The lights of Bangor emerge through the murk. I feel some small relief. Bangor, the City That Always Gets To Bed On Time.

I’m gonna drop you at the corner on Broadway,’kay?

“No. Keep going. Take me into town.”

Fuckin’ A. She’s not gonna get out, is she? My mind races as I cruise around the one-way into downtown. She’s still got hands deeply submerged in calico. My heart’s pounding.

I can take you as far as the bus station on Union. That’s it.

I picture Jack at home, unaware of any of this. He’s probably buried in engineering textbooks.  “Strength of Materials” comes to mind; I picture the well-worn used brown book with red-stenciled letters. He’s got a whole class named “Strength of Materials.” Boy, if I ever see home again, I’ve got some material on strength to regale him with.

We get to the bus station and I pull off to the side of Main Street. Her eyes are still glued to the windshield. She’s not getting out.

Fuck. Once we get over the bridge and after the small shopping center and cinema in Brewer, there’s nothing but wilderness all the way to Ellsworth and Bucksport. Tonight’s dark and inky moisture will make the trip even more foreboding.

I inch my way to the bridge, mind racing. Mid-Penobscot River, I notice a faint light winking at the end of the bridge.

Oh, yeah! The 7-11! I’m screwed if the name implies their operating hours, but a whole new alternative leaps to mind for dumping my creepy cargo. I will get out of the car! If she won’t, I will!  Yay! A plan! I've hatched a plan at last! Bizarrely, Gene Wilder as Dr. Frankenstein pops into my head from Mel Brooks’ classic comedy, Young Frankenstein. “It! Could! Work!”

Coming to the end of the bridge, I turn my Subaru into the parking lot of the, sadly, closed late night store. I remove the keys and begin to open my door. Surprisingly, she beats me to the punch. She fumbles for the handle of the passenger side door and, as swiftly as she entered my vehicle, she’s out. She’s out! She doesn’t say anything — no thank you, no goodbye. She’s just out.

Fuckin’ A and yay! The relief feels like sin. I don’t even stop to ask what she’ll do now; there’s a phone booth, she’s on her own.

I slam the car in reverse, wheel it back around to the west and floor it over the river, back to Bangor, the Queen City.  I feel like a queen. “The Queen of Stupid Moves.” Plowing into the one vacant space left on Court Street, I see the warm lights glowing from our stained glass bay window in apartment 66A. Jack’s still up, likely cramming for an exam. I think it’s time for a study break; I’ve got a story to tell.

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