Nine Minutes (3 page)

     
“Well why don’t
we let
Grizz
decide.”

     
“Let
Grizz
decide what?”

     
I was so busy
watching the exchange between Willow and Monster I didn’t notice the large man walk
up. Startled, I turned my head to the left and was eye level with the zipper of
a pair of blue jeans. I slowly raised my eyes and my breath actually caught in
my throat.

     
I thought Monster
and his evil smile were something to fear. The man who stood next to me was not
only large and impressive in appearance, but I could feel his raw energy and
aggression radiating like a beacon. This was a person of authority. This was a
person you didn’t mess with.

     
This was
Grizz
.

     
He was the reason
I was abducted, and I feared I now belonged to him.

     
At that moment my
mind went in a million directions. I remember hearing snippets of conversation
as to why I was there. Apparently Monster, the newest member of this group or
gang or whatever they were, had just finished an initiation ritual. This final
part wasn’t required, and from what I later learned rarely, if ever, carried
out: Kidnapping someone to be presented to the leader as a thank-you gift to do
with whatever they wanted.

     
That was
me
.
The thank-you gift.
Now that I
thought about it, Monster’s leather jacket looked
brand-spanking
new. He couldn’t have been part of this group for very long.

     
Just then my eyes
reached
Grizz’s
, and he was looking down at me. I
couldn’t read his expression. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he wasn’t
ugly either. He was rugged, hard. Even in the semidarkness I could see he had
compelling eyes. He was wearing a T-shirt that had the sleeves ripped off. He
was muscular and covered in tattoos. His hair looked dirty blonde or maybe
light brown, a little long and unkempt. I couldn’t guess his age. For someone
with such authority, he seemed like he should have been older than he looked.
But I couldn’t tell.

     
The dim light and
my own fear caused all reason and clarity to leave my brain. I suddenly couldn’t
think or feel. I was numb.

     
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t frown. He just continued to stare down at me with those eyes. Willow’s
voice broke the spell.

     
“Stupid asshole
here thinks you’re
gonna
want this little scrawny
piece of shit,
Grizz
. I told him you wouldn’t like
her. Right, baby? You don’t want her, do
ya
? The guys
can have her, huh? If she’s a gift to you, you can do whatever you want with
her, like
give
her away. Right, baby? And he should
know better than to bring someone here.
Gonna
kick
his ass, aren’t
ya
babe?”

     
He looked up then
and stared at Willow without saying anything. I could see her face, and it had
a pleading look. She wouldn’t take her eyes off of him. Just stared with that
look of someone who knows they’ve just lost.

     
She then turned
her anger on me. She lunged at me with her hands outstretched. She was going
for my neck.

     
Before she
reached me,
Grizz
grabbed her by the throat and
lifted her off the ground with one hand. He had her suspended, and she was
kicking her feet. She had both her hands wrapped around his one hand and was
trying to pry his fingers loose. Gurgling sounds came from her throat. Without
saying a word, he tossed her, and she fell onto one of the flimsy lawn chairs,
crushing it beneath her.

     
A figure rose
from the group and went to her. I recognized the gravelly voice from earlier.

     
“It’ll be okay
Willow, honey. He’ll play with her a couple of days and be back in your bed
before the weekend is over.” The man tried to help her up but she brushed him
off.
      

     
“Shut the fuck
up,
Froggy
,” Willow barked. “You don’t know
nothin
’.
I’m supposed to feel better knowing my man is sleeping with that white-trash
piece of shit? You just leave me alone. Stop touching me! I can get myself up.”

     
She stood up and
brushed herself off. She stuck her nose in the air like a queen and started to
walk toward the motel.

     
“I’ll be in our
room,
Grizz
darlin
’,
waitin
’
for
ya
, honey. Just come on home when you’re done and
I’ll show you how a real woman feels underneath
ya
.”

     
I watched her
walk to the motel, open one of the doors and walk in. I looked back up and he
was staring down at me. Without taking his eyes off mine he said, “Moe, take
her to number four. Settle her in. Stay with her.”

     
Take
who
? Me?

     
A tiny person
rose from the ground. She’d been sitting close to the fire and had been staring
into it during the whole scene. At first I’d thought she was a young boy. I
remember thinking they had kids here so it couldn’t be too bad. Now that hope
was gone. She had short, jet-black hair. She was wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt,
black jeans and combat boots. As she rose and walked toward us, I could see her
face was done up with black eye makeup to the extreme. She probably had a
pretty face under all that paint. As an adult I would see young girls made up
during the Goth craze, and I would think none of them held a candle to Moe.
The original Goth girl.

     
Without saying a
word she walked over to me and just stood there. She didn’t meet my eyes, but
looked at the ground. I looked to my right where Monster was sitting. He wasn’t
even looking at me. Sometime during the last ten minutes (or had it been an
hour?) he’d gotten a beer and was sitting there with his head thrown back,
chugging it. To his right was the man called
Froggy
,
the one who tried to help Willow. He was looking down at the broken lawn chair.
Maybe he was trying to see if he could fix it. I don’t remember anyone else,
although I know they were all there that night. Sitting around the campfire,
watching, waiting,
obeying
.

     
I stood up and
Moe slowly walked toward the motel. I clutched my bag to my chest and looked
straight ahead as I followed her. Without turning around I knew with certainty
that those mesmerizing eyes would watch me until I was behind the closed door
of room number four.

Chapter Three

I followed
Moe as she approached the unit with the fading number four on the door. There
was a noisy air conditioning unit that made sounds similar to human coughing
and sputtering. At least it would be cooler inside. I hadn’t realized it, but I’d
been eaten alive by mosquitos.

     
When we
approached the door, I noticed two huge black dogs for the first time. They
were lying on the sidewalk, one on each side of the door, and they raised their
heads inquisitively as we passed them. When they determined we were not a
threat, they went back to their naps. I didn’t know it then, but those two
creatures would become my jailers and eventually my protectors. They were large
black
Rottweilers
named Damien and Lucifer.

     
I had an idea of
what the inside of unit four was going to look like, but I couldn’t have been
more wrong. It was like walking into a different world. Where there should have
been a dilapidated old bed, worn carpet, ancient furniture and the smell of
decay, I found instead a totally modern living area. It looked like two rooms
separated by a small kitchen. It was clean, cool and tastefully decorated. Was
this some kind of dream?

     
Apparently, two
units, maybe even three, had been remodeled to offer the occupant some modicum
of comfort. I didn’t have to guess as to who that occupant was.

     
My first thought
was to find a phone. But Moe must have been reading my mind. We both spotted
the phone on the kitchen counter and looked at each other at the same time. She
just shook her head slowly. I sized her up. She was little. I wasn’t too big
myself, but I was strong and I was pretty sure I could take her down if I had to.
I would save that for later if I needed to. I decided to try to warm up to her.
Get on her good side. Get her to feel sorry for me.
To want
to help me.

     
“Wow, it’s really
nice in here. Are all the rooms this nice?”

     
She didn’t answer
me but gave me a look that
said
“Are you kidding?”

     
I sat on the edge
of the small sofa. She sat on the edge of an oversized recliner and just stared
at me.

     
“So you’re supposed
to get me settled in? What exactly does that entail?”

     
No answer. She
got up and walked to the small kitchen area. Opened the refrigerator and took
out a can of soda. She popped the top, walked over and handed it to me. I
thanked her and sat it on the little coffee table without taking a sip. On
second thought, my mouth was as dry as the desert. A sip would probably taste
good. So I sipped my drink.

     
I guess she
noticed me scratching at the mosquito bites because she got up again and passed
through the kitchen into what I assumed was a bedroom with a bathroom. She
quickly returned and wordlessly handed me a bottle of antiseptic and
one cotton
ball. She nodded at my arms and I realized she
was trying to offer some kind of comfort for the bites. My immediate thought
was, “Okay, so she’s not a horrible person. Only a nice person would be
concerned about some stupid mosquito bites.” I don’t think it ever occurred to
me that she was being nice because there would be hell to pay if she wasn’t.

     
I continued with
the small talk as I dabbed at the bites with the medicine-soaked cotton. Moe
still refused to answer me no matter how hard I tried to engage her. I’d never
seen someone so loyal to her leader. There must have been some unspoken rule
about not fraternizing with the prisoners.

     
Oh man, I hadn’t
thought of that word before, but that’s exactly what I was. A prisoner. Held
against my will. I had to get to that phone. I had a plan. Not a good one, but
if I acted casually enough I might just pull it off. Who knows? Maybe I’m not
really a prisoner, I reasoned to myself. Maybe I’m overreacting. This isn’t
real. This is the kind of thing you see in the movies.

     
I chugged my soda.
When the can was almost empty I casually stood and said, “All done, thanks. Is
the garbage can in the kitchen?” Without waiting for her answer I walked to the
small area pretending to look for the trash. I walked to the sink and started
to pour out what little soda was left in the can. With my left hand, I casually
reached for the phone on the counter. Before I could lift it off the receiver I
felt her behind me. I stopped dead. One hand on the receiver, one hand still
dangling the soda can over the sink. Tiny, quiet little Moe was holding a knife
to my neck.

     
“Whoa, Moe, no
need for that. I just wanted to make a call. Let my parents know where I was.
They’ll be worried and all.”

     
She removed the
knife and I turned around and saw that she was giving me the same look she gave
me when I asked if all the rooms were this nice. No, little unassuming Moe was
no dummy. She was small and she was quiet, but she had my number. Heck, maybe
she was
me
a few years back. I didn’t know.

     
I stammered an
apology. “I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. Do you
know? Why won’t you say anything to me? If you could just tell me what’s
happening or what I can expect I think I could handle it better.”

     
She was shorter
than me, but we were standing so close I was able to get a really good look at
her face. She had pretty eyes, even with all the makeup, and I could tell she
had beautiful skin. I hadn’t seen her smile yet so I couldn’t comment on her
teeth.

     
She showed no
emotion as she stared back at me. I was lost. I was alone. This little would-be
friend was not a friend. She was doing her job.

     
She opened her
mouth slightly as if to say something. Finally, maybe
an
answer.
A word of comfort.
Anything.

     
It was then that
I noticed Moe didn’t have a tongue.

Chapter Four

For the
first time in my life, I uttered a word that had never before crossed my lips: “Mom.”
I wanted my mother.

     
I was born on
Valentine’s Day 1960. My mother named me Guinevere Love Lemon. Yes, that’s my
real name. In order to understand how I got that name you would have to
understand my hopelessly romantic, hippie mother, Delia. And before you
consider judging her for giving me such a ridiculous name, know that my name is
what would ultimately lead to the fall of Satan’s Army.

     
Delia
Lemon got pregnant with me while living in a commune and never cared to try to
identify my father. She met my stepfather, Vince, at a war protest when I was
around six years old, and they were married three years later at Woodstock. Oh
yeah, I went to Woodstock. I say they were married, but I don’t know if it was
legal. She continued to use her own last name, Lemon.

     
She
was way too cool to be a mom, so I grew up calling her Delia. Delia Lemon was
quite the character. I like to compare her to the mother from the Jeannie C.
Riley song, “Harper Valley PTA.” You know the song—the PTA sends a note
home to the little girl’s mother saying they objected to how she was raising
her daughter. That mom goes to the next PTA meeting and basically rips everyone
a new one.

     
The
problem with that comparison is I think the mom from that song cared more about
her daughter and her reputation than Delia cared about me. Delia wasn’t a bad
person. She was just indifferent to rules. She truly didn’t care what people
thought. She was the ultimate flower child. She would just go with the flow.

     
I
still remember my first grade teacher’s horror when she discovered I didn’t
call my mother “Mommy.” I called her by her first name. Always had. I remember
asking Delia once who my mommy was, because all my friends had mommies, and she
brushed it off with a laugh explaining she didn’t believe in labels. I was too
young to understand what that meant.

     
Delia
worked at a health food store before health food stores were popular. She grew
her own herbs and her own pot. She took in stray animals. She never wore a bra
and her wardrobe consisted of tank tops, tube tops and long, billowy skirts
with stretchy waistbands. She went barefoot as often as possible. She had dirty
blonde hair parted down the middle that she always wore in two braids that
almost reached her waist.

     
She
made sure I was fed and always had clean clothes to wear to school. Well, most
of the time. Wrinkled, but clean. That was the extent of her mothering.

     
Our
home was filled with plants hanging in homemade, elaborate macramé hangers.
Scented candles and incense were always burning. Despite working in a health
food store, Delia smoked a pack of cigarettes a day until Vince finally
convinced her to quit. I used to light the candles to cover up the smell. Later
it became a habit I continued long after she quit.

     
Vince
drove a beer delivery truck. He had the same job for as long as I can remember.
He was an okay guy. I can’t say anything bad about Vince.

     
Delia
and Vince never beat or abused me. I don’t remember them ever yelling at me or
punishing me. They just didn’t care enough. I wasn’t loved or nourished
emotionally.

     
I
guess they mostly ignored me. I have no memory of Delia or Vince helping me
with homework. I don’t remember them ever attending any school pageants or
volunteering for fundraisers. I do remember always taking care of myself, even
at a young age. I still recall standing on a kitchen chair so I could reach the
stove to boil water for macaroni and cheese. That was one of my favorite things
to make. Unfortunately, I had a few too many meals of the same type, and to
this day I cannot stomach macaroni and cheese, tomato soup or any kind of cherry-flavored
drink mix.

     
By
the way, Vince and Delia were serious alcoholics. Thank God they weren’t mean
ones
.
Waiting for them at
Smitty’s
Bar after
school felt normal to me at the time. It was the routine. This was back when
Fort Lauderdale felt smaller and people knew each other. That’s where I grew
up. Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

     
When
I was in grade school I was what people called a latchkey kid. I walked home
every day from Parkland Elementary School. I would let myself in and lock the
door behind me. Delia didn’t even require a phone call from me telling her I
made it home okay.

     
I
was a loner but never lonely and was an excellent student. I buried myself in
my books. I showed a real talent for working with numbers. I loved numbers. I
still love numbers. I love how they never lie. They always fit. There is always
a constant.

     
By
the time I was thirteen I had completely taken over the family finances.
Believe it or not, both Delia and Vince would cash their paychecks, keep what
they wanted, and give me the rest. I rode my yellow ten-speed bike to the local
bank every week to make a deposit. I paid all the bills, forging Delia’s
signature on the checks. I reveled in feeling like I was an integral part of
something. I liked to play chief financial officer for our small family.

     
I
really felt important, too, when Vince would ask me, “Hey
Gwinny
,
my boots are wearing out. Think I can keep back twenty for some new ones? You
gonna
have enough to pay the bills?”

     
It
was a small empowerment, but it was better than nothing, and the fact that I
was managing a family budget gave me confidence and a feeling of importance. I
mattered to this family. I had never felt that way before.

     
I
was
Gwinny
when they were drinking, which
was
most times. But by the time I was ten I’d started to
insist that instead of
Gwinny
, I be called Ginny. I
felt like
Gwinny
was more suited to one of the stray
kittens Delia adopted. It was a baby name and I didn’t like it.

     
Eventually,
Ginny was shortened to Gin. Yes, Gin, just like the alcohol. Some things are
just plain ironic, aren’t they?