The Tale of David Patrick Gardner

RWJr.

The bus ride to Seattle's north end filled to capacity as it wound its way through downtown before merging onto I-5. The Amazonians all packed in when the bus stopped at Jeff Bezos' monuments to untaxed predatory capitalism. David was fortunate that his stop was early on in the route, before the out of state Amazon hordes crammed in. At his early stop he always had several available seats to choose from. Most of the other passengers glued their eyes to their phone's screen, a few read, and others sat back and zoned out, listening to whatever sounds were generated by their headphones.

There would be no doubt, with even a momentary observation, that there was one passenger who didn't fit the mold of the others, but putting your finger on the exact reasons why, beyond his youth and ragtag attire, would be a bit difficult to define; that is, at least until David began his usual bus-ride routine. Then the difference between he and the other riders would have an easy scapegoat. He withdrew the large, well-worn Yellowpages directory from his backpack, along with a notepad and pencil. In an almost trance like state he started to record business names and phone numbers. Information he would need for later. This uncommon practice drew glances of curiosity from the other passengers, but David's attention was so fixated on the task at hand that he wouldn't have noticed the odd looks he was receiving unless someone had explicitly altered him to it. While engaged in this activity he was deeply focused, to the exclusion of the outside world, his expression was like that of a kid totally spellbound by a video game. He excitedly searched names and numbers, recording them in a sequence that only he could understand.

Katy sat in bed with her back against the headboard, reading Heart Sick by Chelsea Cain, and feeling not so heartbroken, but rather jealous and a bit spiteful of the exciting lives lived by the characters between the pages. She couldn't help but compare her life to theirs, and feel that her reality was more than a bit bland and boring. Why couldn't she be a sexy serial killer, or a detective trapped in a race against time to save the lives of future victims, or an investigative journalist searching for truth in a world built on lies?

Katy had been obsessed with crime and darkness ever since she was a kid. She used to binge watch real crime TV shows after school, always outwardly rooting for the bad guy, often dreaming about it, but never knowing exactly how to cross the line into criminality in her own life. Even before sex she had lusted after a life of crime. It wasn't until she was nearly an adult that she started to realize just how out of the ordinary these desires really were. When she was just fourteen, she thought it would be a good idea to go dressed-up as Alonzo from the movie Training Day for Halloween. She painted on the goatee and concocted a suitable outfit. Being a big strong man, carrying a gun, living above the law; she used to fantasize about life as a dirty cop, answering to no one, playing both sides and making idiots of everyone, until bad luck and karma finally caught up and ended her story in a blaze of glory. This, she thought, would be a life well lived. Her openness about these dark desires caused more than a few teachers and school counselors to privately note their concerns. When the class was asked what they wanted to do in life, Katy would casually blurt out- rob banks, sell drugs like Pablo Escobar, be like a real life Alonzo from Training Day. The innocent teen girl giggle that typically followed these outbursts would work to excuse any concerns about psychopathy that had started to percolate in the minds of those who heard her words and questioned the soul of the speaker. She essentially slipped through the cracks, no one wanting to risk offending the girl or her family by questioning the sincerity of her often troubling remarks. Undoubtedly it would have been better had someone stepped up and asked some questions. Perhaps if they had allowed their concerns and conscience to guide their decisions instead of fear and conformity then maybe the nightmare in that house could have been stopped, or at least temporarily interrupted. But no, the girl would suffer in silence under the assumption that the world just didn't care what happened to her. She'd continue to see evil doers as some sort of role model, believing that heroes didn't exist.