Nothing to Fear But
Teddy
is learning that working as a washroom attendant is an opportunity to face his
fears. And then a man dies in his washroom and Teddy has to help his killer escape.
Genre: Thriller Character: Washroom Attendant Theme: Fear of Heights.
Cold sweat slid down the back of Teddy's pants. Knees almost
level with his eyes, he was too tightly wedged to take a deep breath. He
listened to a toilet flush, breathing shallowly as legs strobed past the grate
and out the bathroom door. Didn’t stop to wash his hands. Teddy couldn't spare
a thought to the germs because the dark, tight walls were crushing him.
What was Uncle Burns thinking when he got his anxious nephew
this job?
He unclasped his hands and forced himself to stretch his
left hand. Felt the cool beads against his wrist with his clammy palm. Drew a
ragged breath. “I am calm. I am in control,” he muttered, sliding from bead to
bead. “This is fine. I can breath.”
BEEP! He started, banging his head. Felt his heart crash
against his quadriceps. Three minutes. He could get out. Dr. Hasslebeck would
be happy. Exposure therapy -- day 12. Done.
Time to get back to the serious business of inhaling fecal
germs and handing out towels to men who never touched soap or water. He
shuddered, but was calmer as he started to pop the duct cover open while the
washroom was empty.
Whoops, damn. Two men entered the room, one following the
other. It was awkward to crawl out with others there. His heartbeat ramped up.
Trapped.
He felt his ears stretch, listening. One man was mumbling,
in a gravelly voice. The other was silent.
He clutched his bracelet, focussed on counting his exhales,
listening, praying it was two quick number ones. TALK AT THE TABLES, he
silently screamed.
Mumbles was getting louder. "I done the job, Gerry.
That bitch is dead. No more senator, no more gun law. I done it for you. Cuz
you asked me to." The ingratiating boastful voice dropped to a confiding
tone. "Cuz you said you would PAY me. Where’s my money Gerry?" A
clicking he recognized from movies.
Teddy tried holding his ragged breath to be silent. Did
Mumbles just cock a gun? His companion uttered a soothing sound. Suddenly --
Stomp. Smack. Clunk, skree! Outside his vent he saw a glint of metal.
Mumbles, you suck at this, thought Teddy.
Then, a crunch. A wet thump. A calm voice.
"Idiot."
Teddy glimpsed glazed eyes, head at a weird angle. Clamped
both his hands to his mouth to stifle a whimper.
The other man stooped to grab the gun and paused. He was
facing the duct cover. One corner was popped out… would he notice?
He turned slightly, still crouched. Teddy remembered his
uniform jacket was crumpled outside the duct. Felt sick. He squeezed his eyes
shut, praying. Risked a peek, willing his head not to move. A rugged face a
foot from the vent. Could he see Teddy?
Teddy saw his jacket rise and slowly exhaled.
"Now, where are you?" The man had a clipped
accent. Sounded like Bond.
Listening as the steps moved away, Teddy swallowed hard and
glanced down the gloomy duct. As the farthest stall door was pushed open, Teddy
wiggled and slid sideways until he was belly-down and started pushing through
the duct into the close dark.
He softly breathed, “I can do this, I can do this, I can do
this. There is nothing in the dark. I have lots of air.”
His foot slipped, lost purchase and kicked out behind him.
CLANG. The duct cover loudly popped off. Teddy scrambled,
and screamed as a hand grabbed his ankle.
As he was pulled to the bathroom floor, a finger in his
face: “Shut up.”
Teddy was a drenched noodle, a lanky teen in ill-fitting
uniform pants and a Pokemon t-shirt, cowering on the floor clutching a beaded
bracelet.
The man was tall, wearing a very expensive looking suit. He
may have sounded like Bond, but he looked like a villain: dark slicked hair,
crooked nose.
He wasn’t pointing a gun, but his stern look was frightening
enough. “What did you hear?”
“NOTHINGNOTHINGIHEARDNOTHING.” It came out sounding
hysterical.
The man sighed. Pulled a roll of duct tape from somewhere in
his jacket.
Teddy gulped.
“I’m going to tape your mouth so you can’t make noise. You
need to calm down and breathe through your nose.”
Teddy stared, ducked his chin.
“It’s your lucky day. I need a helper. You’re going to help
me clean this up.”
The tape went over the sweaty skin around his mouth and for
a moment Teddy panicked, feeling the claustrophobia again.
“Put your jacket on.” Thrusting the garment at Teddy.
Pulling his sleeves on, he resisted picking at the tape.
The man hoisted the body to a semi-standing position, held
him under the shoulder like a sloppy drunk. “Wipe up the floor. Good. Wipe down
the knobs. Now open the door. I locked it, so you’ll have to pull the shim
out.”
Teddy was drawing ragged nasal breaths. He tugged at the
piece of wood holding the door closed. The man reached past him and pulled it
out.
“Open the door and check the hall.”
Teddy peeked out, knowing that it was unlikely they would
see anyone. On nights without shows, this part of the Casino was quiet. He saw
more solo number twos and fewer tips. He nodded over his shoulder, not meeting
the man’s eyes.
“Good lad. Walk out to the left and then get on the other
side of this fellow and help me carry him.”
Teddy shrank from touching the dead body, wondering about
fluids expelled at death and other gruesome details. They were headed to the
far elevators, the ones that led to the roof and the penthouse.
“Do you have elevator keys?”
Teddy shook his head slightly.
“Ted! You abandoning your post?” A voice behind them -- his
uncle the security guard.
From the corner of Teddy’s eye, he saw the man give him a
tiny headshake. Then the man spoke calmly over his shoulder, “The boy is
helping us. My friend has had entirely too much to drink I’m afraid.”
His uncle chuckled, approaching. “Ted ain’t strong enough to
carry a tune. Here, let me help.”
Teddy winced as Uncle Burns reached for the limp arm across
his nephew’s shoulders.
The body slid away and with a neat pivot, the suited man
clubbed Burns with the gun butt. The guard slumped to the floor.
Hefting the body over his shoulder, the man barked, “Let’s
go, Ted.” The gun was in his hand.
Teddy scrambled to the elevators. Then he realized which
elevator he was entering.
The roof.
The helipad.
40 stories in the air.
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The man tugged him inside and
he slumped to the floor as the man punched the button.
“‘Ain’t strong enough to carry a tune.’” The stranger
half-smiled, not looking at Teddy.
As the door slid open, the suited man pulled out the dead
body and shaking teen.
A small helicopter was sitting on the pad.
Teddy was hyperventilating. The duct tape that had only had
minor purchase on his slick skin slid off the left side of his mouth. He barely
noticed. He dropped, curling into a fetal position.
The wind whipped his jacket as he lay on the roof.
The man knelt beside him.
“Ted. Ted. I don’t want to kill you. Do you understand me?”
Teddy nodded an inch. “I have a code. This man,” he thumped the body’s thin
chest, “he did bad things. He had to die.”
Teddy stared at him. Did bad things because you were going
to pay him! He said nothing, as he tried to stop hyperventilating.
“Ted, I need your help. There is an open dumpster over
there.” He pointed to the side of the roof he was facing. “I need you to help
me throw this man into it.”
Teddy wondered when his heart would actually stop. It should
be soon.
“I will hurt you if I have to. But I don’t want to. So don’t
make me do it. Alright? Get up.”
The man pulled him to his feet. “Call me Mr. George. Do you
understand me Ted?”
As the man ripped the dangling duct tape off, Ted croaked,
“M…Mr. George.”
“Very good. Do you understand what we are doing?”
“I c - can’t.”
An eyebrow cocked.
“It it’s h-h-heights. I … ca..”
“Ted. Ted.” Putting a kindly crushing hand on his shoulder.
“I believe in you.” Patted him. “Grab the feet.”
The dead man had a short, wiry build. He probably only
weighed twenty pounds more than Teddy.
The man grasped the body under the arms, waited for Teddy to
get a hold, and pulled them all toward the edge. Tears filled Teddy’s eyes. He
imagined the sensation of falling. Kept trying to lift the man’s feet, trying
to stay far away from the edge.
At two feet from the edge, Ted was hyperventilating again,
and felt like he might pass out.
“Okay, Ted, here’s the thing. We need to swing him over the
edge. The dumpster is out from the edge of the building. There are balconies on
the side. We can’t have him land on a balcony. Do you understand me?”
Teddy tried to imagine standing at the edge of the roof, the
weight of the swinging body pulling him back and forth, toppling over the edge.
He fainted.
Mr. George drew a deep breath. Cracked his knuckles.
Stretched his neck. Paced back and forth sharply once.
Then he slapped Teddy.
“Stand up, Ted. Wait, first, take this.” Handed him a pill
he pulled from his pocket.
Ted stared at it.
“It’s Ativan, it’s fine.”
“I know, I know what Ativan is.” Maybe the man was a friend
after all. He slid the pill under his tongue.
“Come with me.” He grasped Teddy’s arm and pulled him to the
edge of the roof.
Ted felt a plunging sensation, like he was plummeting to his
death. His head swam. The tops of the awnings at street level looked tiny. He
imagined his body flapping through the air, ripping right through an awning.
His stomach swam.
“You are fine. I am fine. Look at me. We are going to carry
the body to here,” he scratched a line about six inches from the edge, “Give it
a heave and let it go. I need to get moving. We’re going to do this now.”
He dragged Teddy back to the body.
Ted picked up the man’s feet and took a deep breath. He
looked at the man’s pocket where the gun bulged.
“Throw the body, then I can go inside ?”
The man grunted.
Forcing himself to breathe slower, Teddy focused on lifting
the body. Focused on the ground. Approached the edge, resolutely ignoring it.
“Now. Swing. Count of” - he squinted at Ted – “uh, two.”
Focused on swinging.
“And a ONE. And a TWO-- HUP!”
As soon as the body left his hands he backed up two feet
from the edge.
The body flopped gracelessly over the edge. Ted was sure
they had missed the dumpster. He felt exhausted and limp, like all adrenaline
had left his system, taking his bones with it. He almost fainted again.
Mr. George put his arm across Ted’s shoulders, shepherding
him back from the edge. Ted almost smiled as he got closer to the elevator, but
then he realized the man was pulling him on, towards the helicopter.
“No no no NO NO NO!” Ted screamed. He tried to struggle
free.
The elevator lights were starting to ascend. This time Mr.
George had had enough. A gentle rap with the gun butt, and he tossed Ted into
the helicopter. Got it started as security flooded out of the sliding doors.
He yelled, “I HAVE A HOSTAGE,” pointing to Ted’s slumped
body. Burns, holding a towel to his head, waved at his colleagues.
The tiny helicopter lifted off.
Teddy groggily lifted his head, saw the roof slope away,
then slide out from under them. He looked down. Traffic was a herd of beetles
miles below.
His heart fluttered at the top of his chest like a bird in
snare. He tried to take a deep breath, found himself shrieking as he looked
wildly around for something to cling to.
He pulled on the seatbelt, was unable to clip it. Clutching
it tightly, he touched his bracelet, trying to rein in his panic. He sat,
frozen, mumbling affirmations.
Finally the Ativan started to soften the edge of his
hysteria. He thought about asking for another one, rejected it as he imagined
falling asleep and sliding out of the chopper somehow.
The man noticed Ted’s calmer demeanor. Gave him a thumbs up.
Ted smiled, yelled, “Thanks for the pill.” Settled into the relaxed feeling. Looking at
the distant horizon wasn’t horrible.
“I’m curious, why were you hiding you in that duct?” The man
yelled over the engine.
“I was getting used to it, to fight my claustrophobia.” The
man nodded as if this was an entirely normal thing. “Hey, maybe this will help
my fear of heights!”
Police cars massed below them. A police helicopter was
droning in the distance.
“Maybe so. We may need to do some fancy flying, Ted. I
planned to land under the bridge, but that may not be an option.”
“I hope Uncle Burns is okay. He got me the job.” The Ativan
was working with the adrenalin aftermath to make Ted chatty. “Three weeks ago.
I got locked in the second night. It was pretty freaky. Who knew being a
bathroom attendant was so dangerous?” Ted nodded to himself sagely. Laughed.
“Say, who was that guy you wasted?”
“Don’t ask me questions.”
“Okay, Mr. Gerry.” Teddy was getting sleepy.
The man’s head whipped around.
“What did you call me?”
Ted’s eyes popped opened as he realized his error.
They were nearing the bridge. Gerry suddenly banked hard.
Ted, unbuckled, slid sideways.
“I’m sorry, kid. I wish you hadn’t said that.”
Ted realized that Gerry was reaching for the gun. He pushed
back, hard. Kicked out wildly and hit a switch. Felt the helicopter sputter. It
began sliding from the sky. With the Ativan feeling like a cushion around his
flaming centre of panic, Ted clawed behind him, tugging at the door. As they
hit the water, he felt his beads spill off his wrist and the door wrenched
open. The water rose up, and he kicked out of the vehicle. He blacked out.
He came to hearing someone saying his name. Uncle Burns.
“Ted! He’s coming to!” A policeman who had been
administering first aid stopped and leaned back.
“Ted, you okay?” his uncle’s voice was anxious. “Your mom’s
gonna shoot me. I spose you’ll never leave your room again after this?”
The boat rocked gently in the lapping water and he felt
adrift in the soft embrace of the Ativan.
Ted answered, dreamy, “Uncle Burns, it’s okay! I think… I’m
not afraid of anything now!”
He rested another moment, then turned to the officer.
“Do you happen to have any sanitizer?”
