John Locke: Box

“You’ve got an incredibly stressful job,” Pigface said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to engage in destructive, anti-social behavior.”

Pigface, my psychiatrist, knows about my gambling. Knows I’ve broken into people’s homes and assumed their identities while they were on vacation. Knows I’ve robbed wealthy donors while attending their parties. Knows about the random hookers, strippers, and lap dancers I’ve dated.

But she doesn’t know about the patients I’ve killed.

Not my own patients, of course. They’re more innocent than a virgin’s sigh.

I kill other doctors’ patients.

Not randomly, just those who treated me badly in the past. Maybe this one stole my girlfriend in college, or made fun of me in junior high. Maybe that one cheated on me or ripped me off. Years later they enter my hospital for a routine procedure. They don’t remember me, but shortly after I visit their room, they take a horrible turn for the worse.

They may not die, but they’ll suffer.

Just as they made me suffer.

Pigface doesn’t know about the patients I’ve killed, but trust me, she wouldn’t approve.

This is as good a time as any to introduce myself.

I’m Dr. Gideon Box, the top Cardiothoracic pediatric surgeon in the world. A fancy way of saying I fix kids for a living.

I’m extremely good at my job, but in real life I have issues.

I don’t get along with people. I’m antisocial. I don’t “mix well.” Beyond all that, I’ve had bad luck with women.

My entire life.

I live alone.

Big surprise, right?

So anyway, Pigface said, “Join an online dating service. Pick one that requires you to fill out a detailed profile, and be honest. Let the experts find suitable matches for you.”

She told me to seek women from small towns. Said they’d possess basic core values, be less shallow and self-centered than the women I’ve tried to date in Manhattan. Told me to take a week off and visit these women. Told me to be positive, keep an open mind.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” she said.

So I joined a dating website, spent two weeks narrowing down the candidates, and eventually settled on three small-town Kentucky women: Faith Hemphill, Zander Evans, and Renee Williams. These three seemed to possess the qualities Pigface recommended, as well as the one quality I seek in a woman: excessive horniness.

You think excessive horniness shouldn’t be a factor? Does the mere suggestion give you the impression I’m thoughtless, shallow, insensitive, selfish?

I fix kids for a living.

Broken kids.

Kids with congenital heart defects so severe, no other surgeon in the world would agree to operate on them. Kids so ill their own parents have given up all hope for their survival!

These are the kids they send me.

You think I’m selfish?

I give them everything.

Forty-nine hopeless cases have entered my operating room with zero chance of leaving alive. How many survived?

All of them.

So I’m good at what I do.

But like I said, I have issues.

I cheat death time and again, but not without substantial cost. Death takes a toll on me. On my life.

Death owns my soul.

It’s not what you think.

I haven’t made a pact with the devil, or anything like that. It’s just that I can’t stand being me. Can’t stand the stress. Can’t handle the pressure. Wish someone else could do these operations.

But there’s no one.

So four days ago I set out to meet these three women, starting with Faith Hemphill, who lives in Ralston, Kentucky. I flew to Nashville, rented a car, got within two hours of Ralston…

…And met a young waitress named Trudy Lake.

Trudy Lake.

I’m Trudy Lake. Folks here in Clayton think I’m wild.

They’re right.

I can’t help it. I’m eighteen, stuck in this raggedy-ass, dirt-poor country town, bored half to death.

I waitress here at Alice T’s, a teeth-optional greasy spoon located two blocks from Who Gives a Shit, Kentucky. Ninety-nine nights out of a hundred I serve shirtless rednecks in coveralls who smell like whatever they been up to all afternoon. Mostly they come here with fellow workers or drinkin’ buddies, in which case they’re a back-slappin’, nasty-mouthed bunch who take turns tryin’ to see who can fluster me most.

It don’t work.

I ain’t been flustered by man talk since I was fifteen, ’cause I’ve heard it all. These inbred snuff-abusers are mostly all talk, though some are mean as snakes. And them that are, need to be watched out for, since they been known to lurk in the shadows after closin’ time, hopin’ to grab a waitress or two.

Just last week, Carrie Miller survived an attack with no worse damage than ripped clothes and sore boobs, but Tootie Green weren’t so lucky. Two locals are currently servin’ six to ten at Eddy State for puttin’ her in a coma last year. Evelyn Sawyer claims she’s been raped four times, but I got my doubts, since the subject only comes up whenever she checks into the abortion clinic for what she calls a “tummy tuck.”

Evelyn’s cosmetic procedures aside, there’s often rude behavior to be found outdoors at night. That’s why Big Ed, owner of Alice T’s, routinely tells the women to holler out if somethin’ ain’t right when headin’ to their cars.

Case in point, last April, Kennon Carlson was gettin’ severely crotch bit when Big Ed heard her wailin’ out back and laid wood to Gus Wilson’s head to the point where Gus walks funny and drools uncontrollably, though he proudly wears the bracelet he made from Kennon’s snatch hair he picked from his teeth. Durin’ argument season, Big Ed points to Gus’s bracelet as proof Kennon ain’t a natural redhead.

Sometimes the menfolk show up with their wives and kids in tow. Mostly these wives regard me with mistrust, like maybe they think I’m gonna steal their warts and mustaches or somethin’. While some of the kids are cute in an Easter Island statue sort of way, an outsized number of them walk around town with a mutant, Children of the Corn look about them.

What I’m really sayin’, I don’t want to wind up like the people I wait on.

I’m still livin’ in the house I grew up in. A house so sorry you can fling a cat through any wall without touchin’ wood.

I want out. Want to get the hell out of town before the next bad thing happens, which is why I’m payin’ middlin’ attention to the nicely-dressed doctor at table sixteen on the far side of the room. I’m allowin’ him to flirt with me, though he’s not much good at it.

Partly it’s his age, which makes him automatically sound lame when he talks.

How old is he? Forty, at least. Maybe more.

Reason I know he’s a doctor, it’s the first thing he said when I brought the menu.

I said, “Hi, I’m Trudy. I’ll be your waitress tonight, if that’s all right with you.”

He said, “Hello, Trudy. I’m Dr. Gideon Box, from New York City.”

“Really?” I said. “What kind of doctor are you?”

“I’m a world-famous cardiothoracic surgeon,” he said, proud as punch.

“I guess you got Doc Blanchard beat six ways to Sunday,” I said.

“Is that your general practitioner?”

“Yeah, but his degree is in veterinary medicine.”

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

I asked, “Do you have business at the county hospital, or you just passin’ through?”

He smiled a goofy grin and said, “That sort of depends on you.”

“Me?”

“I notice you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”