As Geronimo walks out of the strip mall and toward his Fifth Avenue Manhattan penthouse, he laughs. Not because he’s happy. But because he’s relieved to hit rock bottom. It means that he can gather the remnants of whatever is left, and begin the process of getting better again.
As he laughs, he looks at the veins in his arms. No puncture wounds! He looks at the Park Avenue sign a block away. Perfect vision! And he shakes his head. Because his compulsion to steal panties doesn’t appear to affect his brain chemistry the way addictions to drugs or alcohol might do.
Yet he would argue, if he wasn’t ashamed of himself, that there’s no difference between his panties-stealing and a cocaine addict’s compulsion to shoot up. It’s that salient. He needs it that badly. Or it tears him up inside.
*****
Geronimo is a successful investment banker. He earned more than two million dollars last year. He has no reason to steal panties. He could buy many of the stores from which he steals panties. Or, if he were embarrassed to make such a purchase, he could ask his maid to order boxes full of panties.
If he didn’t want his maid in on the gig, he could ask one of the many women who frequent his flat to leave her panties with him. Which would be much less stressful than concocting elaborate schemes to avoid security guards, and going to great lengths to hide his panties-stealing self from the world.
If he knew that I’m now writing about him, he would first tell me to change his name, profession, and compulsion – which I’ve done. Then he’d tell me to choose my words carefully. Because whereas I can choose words and fake compulsions, he can’t choose to stop stealing panties.
He steals because, according to a note that he wrote on a napkin years ago, “I’ve descended into a hell that won’t offer me respite until I concede and offer my soul once again.”
*****
He’s in his Fifth Avenue penthouse now, and sitting on a black leather couch. Panties of different colors, shapes, and sizes are strewn around him… on the couch, on the floor, and on the coffee table. He looks at the panties. And cries. And thinks that he hates panties more than anything in the world.
He hates the way they look, feel, and smell. He hates that he must steal them anyway. He hates stealing them. He hates the relief after stealing them. And he hates hiding it all from the women or businessmen who think that they know him so well.
Yet he thinks, as the doorbell rings, that such loathing doesn’t deter him. Instead, it motivates him. Because if he loved (rather than loathed) anything about panties, or about himself, he would respect rather than steal them.
But he can’t think about any of this right now. Because he’s grabbing panties by the handful and shoving them under couch cushions.
*****
“One minute,” he says, as he notices that a couch cushion appear suspiciously lumpy. He removes a few panties from under the cushion and hides them in a nearby drawer. Then he walks to the door and invites a woman into his home. “Hello Carmelina,” he says.
0 Responses to “Chapter 2: Geronimo”