Chapter 24
Off the Rails
A year or so passed. Don was still working through the difficulties of
being ditched as each passing day engendered resentment from haunting memories.
The results of his rancour and mopes brought about an unsociable disposition
and a withdrawal from society, therefore self fostering an inferior temperament
which influenced his ability to deal appropriately with normal issues. The
power of termination or the disintegration of a relationship has the ability do
strange things to people. With the calendar flipping the months away he finally
reached an impasse in which inferring a survival common to normality implied a
cerebral approach to his future sanity as essential for good health. He knew he
had not yet completely come to terms with the spurn of deceit, and even
tensions from belated responses to the psychological effects of hostile
schoolmates was still detrimental to his wellness. On finishing work at
lunchtime on Friday, as did the rest of his gang, he grappled with quandaries
to adjudicate the merits of visiting the local physician for diagnosis. By the
time he reached town he formed the opinion it was for the best and was
determined to follow through with his decision. The doctor questioned him in
length and diagnosed his problem to be a ‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder’. He
explained his condition to be a social anxiety disorder caused from the
separation of a loved one and from his mental inability to view the world as
trustworthy and caring; thus causing a moral dilemma in his psyche. He
discreetly prescribed a low dose of antidepressants called ‘Prozac,’ and
suggested he undergo regular psychiatric assessments; Don refused the
assessments but took the prescription and without delay went to town to
purchase the medicine.
The pharmacy was a large old crumbling building with a notice from the
town planner to condemn it for demolition and reconstruction. The contents was
in a state of extreme disorder with boxes stacked high and stock scattered in
wait of unpacking and shelving in a new premises. Apparently the pharmacist had
been dispensing pills from this edifice of disrepair since its construction and
was in the process of moving to a new shop in the same street a few doors
southward. On entry Don noticed one woman and one elderly man behind the
dispensary and one lassie at the main counter devoting her labour to customer
service. He approached the young girl and handed her his script, she politely
advised him;
“It will be complete in
about ten minutes. If you would like to wait please feel free to do so. Do you
want to wait?”
“Okay.” Don nodded to
confirm his answer. He left the main counter and circumambulated the
merchandise before standing to one side of the front entrance behind a tall
stack of boxes. He was in a remote area, well away from the one other customer
sitting at the back of the shop. Perfectly poised for street viewing and
enduring the wait with blithe concern he took a nonchalant glimpse at a tall,
slim, dark man ambling past him towards the counter. Something about him
grabbed Don’s attention that went unnoticed by others, he watched as the man
got closer to the counter and signs of fluster and erratic jitter sent alarm
bells ringing in his head. All of a sudden the man became melodramatic and
shouted menacing language in a voice consistent with someone possessed. His
personality converted instantly into demented hysteria as he drew a large knife
from inside his jacket, bailed up the young assistant and commanded in frank
and snappish demands;
“Give me the money? Hurry
fuck ya. Give me money? The girl screamed and jumped back, aghast for her own
safety. He waved the knife over the counter in an unpredictable manner
insisting repeatedly he be given money. The male pharmacist raced from behind
his elevated counter and tried to calm the man while pushing the assistant out
of harm’s way. The man was not going to be calmed; he was highly intoxicated
and dangerous. Then, without warning, in capricious refusal he swiped the knife
at the pharmacist’s throat missing it by a whisker. At first the pharmacist had
audacious visions of disarming the man but was frightened of being stabbed so
he opened the ‘till’ and handed over the contents, then apprehensively used
strong dialogue to compensate for his inability to apprehend him;
“That’s all we have. There
is no more. Get out while you can, the police are on their way. GET OUT!”
The perpetrator stuffed the notes in his jacket and made a dash for the
door. Don was usually a laggard who minded his own business, but he never did
like nasty people and now more than ever acquired a hatred for bullies. Still
unseen due to the camouflage provided by the boxes, a rush of blood caused him
to time his exposure perfectly; as the robber virtually reached Don’s cover he
leapt out and gave a mighty left hook to his abdomen and heaved against the
robbers shoulder with both hands. The thief’s momentum in conjunction with the
force of Don’s push set in motion an unbalanced body being hurled in the air
and crashing head first into glass shelving on the opposite side of the
doorway; it knocked him into an unconscious ball of jelly. The crime scene was
soon swarming with the law, accompanied by ambulance officers and the local
‘rag’. The culprit was treated and made conscious as the police undertook their
inquiries by questioning all present. The pharmacist, who turned out to be the
owner of the chemist, together with others in attendance gave the police and
the newspaper reporter a story fitting enough to endorse Don to the status of
hero. He knew he was no hero. It was not his bravery which conditioned his
actions but a spur of the moment decision based on his dislike of threat and
hurt to innocent animals or humans. He had tremendous intellectual sympathy for
the oppressed and knew well the feeling of intimidation.
After the drama subsided the owner provided Don with his prescription,
took him out back into the kitchen, and gave him a cold drink from the fridge
whilst thanking him for helping to recover the money. The owner did most of the
confabulating while a bored Don listened with an impassive stare. He offered
Don a cup of tea for which he politely refused and went about making one for
himself. Much more interesting than the ramble he was being subjected to, was
what he could see through the door left ajar on the far side of the kitchen.
His slight peek through the gap of minute proportions was not detected by the
owner, the fleeting look was sufficient to plainly view a partly open safe with
wads of money sitting on the inside shelf. When they finished their genial chat
the owner escorted him to the front counter where the staff thanked him and he
made his way home.
From the moment Don departed the scene he was ceaselessly mindful of
deceit and larceny because he could not erase the image of stacks of money just
sitting there for the taking; it was scrambling his brain. He understood the
idea of stealing was an irrational impulse caused by a decadence of morals and
cultivated by greed, but contemplation of indulgence in corruption energized
the defects in his mentality. The propensity to act in a plundering manner was
instilled into him from a young age, and the prospect of having so much money
was eroding the respectful part of him not yet bedevilled by the culture of his
past. To excogitate a way to steal the money without being caught was a
perpetual deterrent to his daily routine because the implications involved a
need for much creative muse. In his favour was the blessing of a good knowledge
of the area. There was no need to case the joint, it was not far from the bank
he once cleaned regularly with his mother and he knew most of the buildings in
the street were dilapidated, the back doors were made of rotting wood, mostly
decrepit and ill-fitting, and each shop backed onto a poorly lit alleyway
bordered by damaged fences planked intermittently. Unperturbed about the act of
entry or the possibility of discovery, his predicament of mind lie in the doubt
and uncertainty as to whether or not the safe still held its valuable contents,
and, if so, was he capable of unlocking it. Armed with aggressive boldness,
unmitigated audacity and unsound logic he intended to carry out his plan that
night. He figured: ‘I’ll stand a better
chance of success if I do it straight away. There’s a good chance the money
will still be there tonight, but if I wait; who knows? Anyway, nothing
ventured, nothing gained.’
This time of the year was normal for a windy chilly night. He wore long
trousers, a jacket with plenty of pockets and packed gloves and a large, thick
screwdriver. The ‘driver’ was for leverage to force the back door and pry the
safe. The plan to open the safe was really no plan; just to wing it. He drove
to the pub parking area located about a ten minute walk from the pharmacy. The
pub was packed solid, the crowd poured in to hear the local rock band ‘Mothers’
Cutter’; it always attracted the drunk-and-disorderly who bopped and hopped
while poorly practicing the art of the terpsichorean. One beer to wash down a
couple of ‘Prozac’ was only a taste, many more assured ample beverage to settle
his nerves before returning to his car for the kit of tools. The screwdriver
was placed in a pocket down the leg of his pants, then he donned his gloves and
began the walk through the thin dim alley’s connecting to the one he needed to
access. The destination was easy to reach without being detected. When standing
at the back door there was barely enough light to see clearly, yet breaking in
was simple, it was achieved by wedging the screwdriver in between the door and
the ‘jam’ and exerting leverage. The door was so old it nearly fell off and
although he never gave thought to a burglar alarm, fortunately one did not go
off, or there was none, or it was broke.
Once inside, the pitch darkness gave an exasperating reminder of the
torch he forgot to get out of the car, he stumbled and fumbled through the mess
to the room holding the safe. It was too dark to accurately attempt any
workable strategy, and while using his clumsy hands for eyes his touch
recognized the shape of a box of matches. One was lit, its intermittent and
evanescent flame ineffective, he struck another and another, each burning his
fingers at the flames end. With each strike he vaguely ascertained the safe was
locked shut, so the door to the room was pushed closed behind him and the waste
paper basket used for a small fire to emit light. Only a couple of pieces of
paper at any one time were ignited, which gave just enough flame to see what he
was doing and not enough for it to be seen or smelt from outside. Now he could
go to work, and did so by jamming the end of the ‘driver’ in the top of the
safe where the gap was the widest and with as powerful a thrust he dare,
without making too much noise, he tried his damndest to force it open; but to
no avail. Again he tried and he tried again. ‘One more go’, he thought. This time he put one hand on the handle
to gain more leverage, as the fire extinguished once more he pushed and pulled
in the darkness as hard as he could, his screwdriver slipped out causing a
painful jar to his hand and forcing the other down on the handle, and much to
his amazement, ‘click,’ the door opened. It was unlocked all the time, just
closed. ‘Dickhead’ he thought,
shaking his hand in mid air to alleviate the ache, ‘Should have tried that first, it was already unlocked’. More paper
in the basket and another strike of a match revealed his wildest dreams; the
contents were still there. Notes bundled with elastic bands in neat equal
piles.
The light was diminishing quickly, so in ebullient haste more and more
paper choked the bin for light while he stuffed the cash into his pockets.
Loaded, relieved, and swollen with pride he was ready to scoot. After closing
the safe door a thoughtless exit and clumsiness caused him to trip over the lit
waste paper basket, scattering flames amongst other combustible materials. This
incompetence was not part of the plan, fraught with danger he tried to douse
the flames but it was too late because it spread out of control. While
hightailing out of the premises he made the effort to wedge the back door shut
with a slither of timber; there was no logical reason for doing this, he just
did as a matter of instinct. Scudding through the back-streets to the carpark and
finally to the safety of his car he waited and could not believe the fire had
not yet raised any alarms. It was only ten ‘pm’ the band was still playing and
sounding humdrum outrageous decibels. He hid the money in the boot of his car
with the other stuff and snuck in the back door of the pub, ordered a beer and
sat in full sight of the patrons; everybody was too drunk to notice he left
anyway. People inside informed others of the reddish sky over the top of the
buildings, and most, including Don, went out for a short gander; when the
commotion settled he went back inside, had a few beers and went home.
Lying in bed he could not shut his brain down. Before the fire he
anticipated the robbery would not be reported until Monday morning because they
did not open weekends, but he forgot they were moving into new premises and
they would have probably worked all weekend anyway moving stock, but none of
that mattered now. On Saturday he went for a drive to a secluded spot and
counted the money; thirty five thousand dollars. He euphorically conceded: ‘Damn, that’s a lot of money’. Hiding
the stash was an easy process, deciding where to hide it was ridiculously
difficult. The only spot he could think of was in his car. He wrapped the money
in plastic and removed the side panel next to the back seat, the cavity proved
adequate in size and was considered to be the safest place he could think of to
store for future use, but then worried about someone stealing his car. Forever,
while the cash was in the car he was vigilantly heedful of the cars security.
Monday’s newspaper headlines read;
‘Daring Robbery: Pharmacy Set
Ablaze.’
It gave particulars to what happened;
‘…a large undisclosed sum of money
had been stolen and the place torched……….’
In the same article it went on to say;
‘…..on the prior Friday a local
hero, by the name of Don Scotsdon foiled a robbery attempt in this very
premises…’
And with a bit of journalistic license and the usual sensationalism, it
spelt out full particulars of the event. Don was popping additional ‘Prozac’ in
attempt of settling his anxiety caused by the fear of incrimination. The last
thing he wanted was for someone to attract attention to his whereabouts,
especially in relation to the Chemist, and hopefully not on Friday night.
When his family learnt of his heroic endeavour they congratulated him
and was happy he helped catch a thief. Yet within himself, abysmal misery had
been badgering him daily, he battled the routine of work as best he could
manage and was encumbered with much apprehension; waiting for what he thought
to be inevitable, for the police to question and demand his movements on Friday
night. Luck was on his side because their main concentration of investigation
was towards the male who attempted the robbery on Friday. Due to this man’s
head injury he was admitted to hospital under police guard but escaped shortly
after and a hunt was on for his capture; they never did question Don. The
rumour mill suggested the thief proved to have links to other shifty and
disreputable people who were notorious for fraudulent activities and they did
it. More months passed by without further media coverage until an article
reported the amount stolen, it said:
‘Sixty thousand dollars.....’
Twenty five thousand more than Don took. It was obvious the owner of the
pharmacy was duping the insurance company and the fire helped his claim, but it
was not like Don could turn dobber. Whether they caught the man who escaped
their arrest was never publicized, and if they did, Don never heard about it.
Don’s parents showed approval for his heroic actions and thought it may
have enforced a change in his behaviours, but it did not. Of late their health
had not been ideal and not helped by his conduct, they were deeply concerned
about his odd traits and bottled inner challenges, especially involving the
opposite sex. If they ever became aware of his indiscretions, ingestion of
medication and the symptoms treated, they would have been forever troubled; the
news may have ruined their health to a point of a breakdown. Ted and Rene were
doing well in their work and at last they were financially stable, they were at
an age and time in years where they wanted to experience the ‘fruits of life’,
not cope with the complexities of it. They wanted to travel and the only thing
stopping them was Don’s idiosyncrasies, it left them apprehensive, they could
not sanction their reasoning to leave him home alone, or put such a liability
on Tim. Don knew it would shatter his parent’s lives if it were proven he was
the one who stole the money and burnt down the chemist shop, he pledged to
himself that would never be the case; at least not due to any of his own
asinine comments.
The money he stole was treated with frugality; he was not a wastrel,
quite the opposite, he used it wisely and in small amounts so as not to draw
outside attention to himself. Purchases were only for minor things, including
female sweeteners and gifts which reputed him as a womanizer at local dances;
contributing to an unwanted popularity. A string of girls followed the money
and were numerous types in character and shape, but none worthy of the love he
felt for Cardinia; besides it would take a miracle for him to trust another.
Their main purpose for him was sexual gratification. Dance after dance and week
after week he was seeing more of one girl called Cindy. She had a great figure
and was very good sexually but not much to look at. Nevertheless he started to
date her because he was lacking in real companionship and marked by a deep
dejection from loneliness. He appreciated the exceptional quality of her weird
and wonderful sense of humour, it constantly manifested a much needed smile to
his face, and eventually she became another who touched his heart. His
affection for her deepened, and the learnt mistrust and contemning of women
impinging on his character like a bacillus spore improved to produce a
resurrection of hope. A rapport between the two flourished, probably because of
his afforded generosity with what everyone assumed to be his hard earned cash.
But his rectitude in judgment was soon to be corrupted and again he was jilted.
Cindy had gone parking in a car with four males for a ‘gang bang’. Don later
spoke to one of the men and he confirmed she willingly enjoyed sexual
intercourse with each one of them; one after the other. In disbelief Don
approached her and sought the truth. She did not deny the act and was shameless
in her account of events. She treated him as an insignificant diversion, and
without a hint of compunction laughed in his face and called him a ‘dickhead’.
He was starting to believe he was simply that; a dickhead Following her abuse
and lack of repent he became infuriated, and out of a raging temper lashed at
her face with the back of his hand. Afterwards he kneeled shattered, laden with
self opprobrium and disgust; it was the last he ever saw of Cindy.
He excoriated the behaviour she displayed, and being constantly
subjected to dastardly people increased the dolorous cycle. Then on careful
consideration of the events he agonized over the reasons for her perfidious
betrayal and concluded her actions should have been expected. He thought: ‘It was no wonder really, deep down I knew
she was only using me for my generosity. My decreased sex drive and ejaculatory
and orgasmic impairment due to the overuse of antidepressants would turn
anybody away. I wasn’t pleasing her and I chose to ignore it.’ Plainly, a
fallacious hope she was being supportive and sympathetic to his needs was
marked by a lack of intellectual resolve, in the end her egotistical ways set
him moreso into an attitude full of self-abasement, diminishing his impression
of females to Jezebel’s and whoring liars. Much to his surprise, an uprise of
resilience overcame the disappointment much quicker than previous involvements.
He thought: ‘I guess I’m not as upset as
I might have been if I was totally devoted like I was to Cardinia. Cindy was
more of a physical relationship.’ Due to past disappointments he set about
concealing his abounding delusions for her insincerity, still it was impossible
to forgive her, or the others for their infidelity. This particular affair only
cemented his belief: ‘Love like trust is
a by-product of ignorance’. It seemed he could only trust or love someone
until they did something wrong; and in his world he thought that inevitable.
Already his constitution portioned little compassion for people who hurt the
living, and now developed through his own troubled affairs was born a rich
humane quality of understanding for the suffering of others.
Life took on a self-interested existence. An avoidance of outside
manipulations and undesirable company, or assistance, was prioritised as an
essential part for sound mental health. He had his money to keep him company,
and although the temptation to splurge on fine things was beseeching inclusions
of wasteful luxuries, eventually common sense prevailed over avariciousness
resulting in taxing cogitations to find ways to invest without attracting
attention to future acquisitions. He concocted an idea and organized a meet with
a ‘Credit Union’ official to borrow a large sum of money for a property
investment. A deposit was already saved from his real wages, so for the
remaining fee he nominated as collateral the three blocks of land he wanted to
purchase, each next to the other. In reality he had more than enough to pay
cash for the land but the repayments, being a large portion of his weekly wage,
would provide belief to the legitimacy of purchase of the security. The
mortgage would be automatically deducted from his wages and what remained was
adequate to survive on; albeit, hard currency was not going to be a concern
because he could subsidize his losses through a prudent draw on the dollars
hidden in his car as he felt fit. The deal was finalized and he was the proud
owner of property. Financial hardships on the journey were nonexistent because
of the spare cash on hand, and he assumed great profits on selling the land
would add to his total wealth; it was an ingenious and beneficial versatility
of property encumbrances.
Small amounts of money were incessantly wasted on female company because
his sexual impulses remained rampant; still the burden of erectile issues
persisted but few complained as the bribe of gifts silenced them. At least by
now he learnt a few lessons and reversed the circumstances of his charitable
nature, instead of gifting to the benefit of others he only bought for girls
whom he thought he could manipulate sexually; he was now the exploiter instead
of the exploited. This equivocal behaviour conditioned a most uneasy paradigm
of insularism in which he was withdrawn except for when he was mixing with
those misfits who mirrored his own humiliations and distrust’s of the world.
The troubles he encountered in life took their toll on his psychological and
physiological composition, and with his fidelity long stolen he was still
caught in dark undercurrents of antipathy towards others.
He picked his partners through sleazy dance halls, clubs, and pubs, none
could be said to convey beauty, and their qualitative calibre was equal to the
patronage of the places frequented. One was a short, fat, scraggy haired girl,
a bit of a witch by appearance who would have taken to any man. She was sitting
on her own because no one wanted to go near her. Don asked;
“Would you like to dance?”
She leaped from her chair;
“Yes.” They moved
rhythmically to a slow song until his impatience got the better of him.
“Want to get out of here and
go for a drive?”
“Yes.” She replied.
“Where would you like to
go?”
“The beach would be nice. Can
we go to the beach?” Don’s response was;
“Bloody hell, the beach is
ten miles away”. He loathed the idea but agreed for the sake of sex. On the way
they made foolish talk. She sat in the middle with her hand on his leg trying
to raise a sign of interest, but his thoughts were wandering, torn asunder and
unable to stop flashbacks of the good times with Cardinia. They parked near the
sand dunes overlooking rolling surf, usually by this time his penis would have
been as hard as a rock; nothing, limp as lettuce. She wanted to kiss and
cuddle, sadly those feelings were exclusive only to her because he just wanted
a quick root; whether to prove his masculinity, or he needed it was immaterial.
There were no ladylike type manners about her, she spoke rough, looked rough
and acted rough. Her bullish hand grabbed his knob and her blouse already half
undone exposed a full pair of breasts, yet he could not bring himself to find
enough vigour to take advantage of the situation. His cock let him down; it was
like a defrosted sausage. He tried and tried, but the more he tried and thought
about the prerequisites, the less feasible the deed became. The thrall of his
love for Cardinia caused embarrassment once again. He made excuses of being
unwell of late and took her back to the dance. From there onwards he was always
suspicious of her gossip and worried it was about his androgenic deficiencies;
each outing made his paranoia rife from guilt.
The self imposing doctrine suggesting gifts could buy love, respect, or
dignity, was unfounded, it was clear money was not the answer to Don’s woeful
plight; it failed to buy the happiness he sought. Awake to the need for change
and tired of being discomforted by the company of people come a self-confessed
realization the derision experienced from his anserine relationships bred more
insecurities and was a major factor behind his self-destruction. He always knew
he could no longer handle the demands of others, and each affiliation, people
or place, reinforced his belief. The result was, he continued to detach himself
as much as possible from the populace.
