The Seal of Confession (part two)
Boston Outsider / Humor
I soon realized that I was the only person at work who knew the truth about Richie. The official story in the “bunker,” which is what we called the windowless basement room in which we toiled, was that he had lost a lucrative job because of corporate downsizing and that he had left his wife because of infidelity, her infidelity. In one version of the soap opera, Mrs. Cattivo had dallied with the Roto Rooter man. Another rumor was that she had gotten involved with a group of high school athletes and had done something kinky with a lacrosse stick. Richie claimed that he wasn’t behind all the gossip, but conversely, he seemed to do nothing to dispel any negative notions about his ex.
He kept a low profile at work, never making overtures to female coworkers. (“I don’t shit where I eat,” is the way he put it.) Occasionally, when a well-endowed woman walked by, Richie would look at me and cup his own hands in front of his chest, Guy Sign Language for “nice rack,” but he always made sure that nobody was looking. And there were times when he would express remorse for ruining his marriage, and I would feel as if he was seeking some sort of absolution. But over the months, as his sales figures and commissions steadily rose, I could sense that he was growing restless.
“I’ve been looking to get my own place,” he said to me one day in the elevator after work. “Living with roomies is cramping my style. You live alone, right? I tell you what,” he continued, arching his eyebrows. “Let’s go to your place and call an escort service. We can get a couple of girls and have a little orgy. I’ve been doing pretty good at work, so it’s my treat”
“Richie,” I sighed. “My apartment is two lousy rooms. And the lease says that I can’t have pets or whores.”
“Okay, we have the party at a motel,” he persisted.
“I’m too shy for orgies” I said. “Why don’t you do it on your own and videotape it, and then enter an over-forty amateur smut contest.”
“Oh, I forget,” he sniffed. “You’re a big Catholic. Some gimmick, that Heaven thing, a deal you can’t close until you’re dead.”
“Yes, I’m an old lady trapped in a man’s body,” I replied as the elevator reached ground level. “See you tomorrow, Casanova.”
Richie failed to show up for work the next day, and he didn’t call to say where he was. Our manager was worried sick about his ace salesman, and I just sat there with a smirk on my face, picturing Richie all tuckered out from a threesome. After my shift was over, I called Richie’s home number and got his roommate Zack.
“Dude, Richie’s gone,” Zack said, as I could hear female wailing in the background.
“Zack, what go you mean, ‘gone?’” I asked. “And who’s that crying?
“That’s Chloe,” he said, referring to Richie’s other roommate. “We came home from the coffee shop about an hour ago, and Richie was on the living room floor all cold and gray and shit. And Mildred was wrapped around him.”
“Zack, who the fuck is Mildred?” I yelled, wondering why Richie had neglected to tell me about his concubine or whoever she was.
“Mildred is our boa constrictor, Dude,” Zack drawled. “Richie must have knocked her tank over when he fell.”
“You say he fell?” I said, my heart racing. “And he was gray and cold. . . .”
“Yeah, Dude,” Zack said as Chloe continued her eerie noises. “Richie is dead.”
(to be continued)
