Krutzinger
by
Phyllis Green
My
uncle, the famous
Kip Krutzinger,
the State Wrestling
Champ, wrote a
letter about me
to the STUDS so
I became a pledge.
I could have joined
the Drama Turds
(yeah, they were
called that) because
I was a drama
major and I had
been directing
neighborhood plays
and pageants since
I was five. I
figured I could
get more girls
as a STUD. In
a way that was
true. When I saw
a pretty girl
I would use this
line, “There’s
a hot party at
the STUDS house
Saturday night.
You and your friends
may come as my
guests.”
I would walk in
like Hefner with
his playmates,
nine gorgeous
giggling girls
clinging to me.
So I’d go
and get drinks
and when I came
back the girls
had scattered
to hang by the
jocks and I would
sit and finish
off 10 glasses
of wine and then
inch off to my
dorm room like
the worm I was.
Pledge
week I was assigned
to Chuck Fuller
of the “If
Chuck Fuller loves
you; you know
you’ve been
loved.”
He didn’t
really say loved.
Chuck was the
quarterback and
yeah, I was to
say the least,
intimidated.
“Here’s
your assignment,”
he bellowed at
me. He was drunk
of course, always
was.
“What?”
I asked eagerly,
popping another
beer can for him.
“I
want you to kill
Professor Cook.”
“The
math guy?”
“He
gave me an F,”
Chuck said before
he belched and
farted.
“So,
you want me to
…?”
“Kill
him.”
“Any
special way?”
I had had a couple
beers myself.
“Decapitation.”
“Uh
huh.” I’m
thinking gotta
get me a sharp
knife.
“And
before he’s
dead, say ‘This
is from Chuck
Fuller for the
F’.”
“How
much time do I
have?”
“One
week,” Chuck
said. “Seven
days and then
adios Prof Cook
and your freaking
Trig class.”
The
tall skinny balding
guy with the holey
KNIVES ARE US
tee shirt was
very helpful.
“What
kind of knife
are you looking
for?” He
wore thick tortoise
shell glasses
that kept sliding
down his nose
and when he pushed
them back up it
looked like was
giving me the
finger.
“I’ll
be going on safari,”
I confided. “In
case I get tossed
out of the jeep
or lose the group
I want to have
protection from
the lions, the
wildebeests, the
rampaging elephants,
hyenas, monkeys,
parrots, and prairie
dogs.”
“There
can be mentally
disturbed prairie
dogs,” he
said. “Let’s
look over here.”
We
moved to another
counter and he
bent down and
unlocked a dusty
black chest and
out came some
really wicked
stuff. Axes, scabbards,
pirate paraphernalia,
Arabian swords,
good stuff.
I
chose a long curved
sharp serrated
steel knife with
a bright blue
handle.
“That
should take care
of anything you
run into.”
I
paid the $499
with my parent’s
credit card. A
small price to
keep Chuck and
the STUDS happy.
Then
I began stalking
Professor Cook.
I soon knew the
man better than
he knew himself.
I followed him
from his small
house that needed
a good paint job
to the red brick
campus building
where he worked.
I learned the
times of his classes.
I knew the classroom.
I knew that each
day before he
went home he stopped
at Peggy’s
Pie Shoppe and
ate a piece of
pie. I knew he
had three little
kids who had colds
and a wife who
did lots of laundry.
She had long blond
hair. She would
look good in black.
Maybe after a
decent interval
I could date her.
The
plan was to attack
him as he left
the last class
of the day.
I
walked slowly
down the hallway
with my eyes on
Professor Cook,
my blue handled
knife pointing
straight ahead
and when I bumped
into him it would
sink into his
liver or lung
or somewhere in
there.
It
was mere seconds
until I would
bump him when
some jackass flung
open the door
to Classroom #29
and my blue handled
curved serrated
blade rammed the
door and went
right through
to the other side.
I couldn’t
get it out! I
pulled and twisted
but my knife wasn’t
budging.
Professor
Cook passed me
as I struggled.
He waved and called,
“Afternoon,
Krutzinger.”
HE
KNEW MY NAME!
I
had to go back
to the Drama Workshop
to get pliers
and wrenches and
hammers. It took
me 45 minutes
to detach my knife
from the door
to Classroom #29.
The
next day I didn’t
stand outside
the Pie Shoppe
waiting for the
professor to eat.
I boldly went
inside and ordered
a blueberry. I
noted he had a
lemon meringue.
I
decided to play
tough. I tossed
the clear plastic
fork on the floor
and ate my pie
with my blue handled
knife. I came
this close to
slicing off a
piece of my tongue.
When
the professor
headed home, I
followed, waiting
across the street,
whittling branches
of a tree I hoped
belonged to him.
He came out of
his sad little
house with a basketball
and three little
snot nosed kids
and they proceeded
to play hoops.
I waited for their
game to end. They
went back inside,
leaving the basketball
in the yard--so
like kids. I snuck
over to the ball,
grabbed it like
it was alive and
struggling, then
stabbed it with
my blue handled
knife. It went
in easily like
cutting coconut
cake, and I left
the withered ball
for the professor,
a warning. Then
I went to play
practice. We were
doing that fun
play, HARVEY.
I would have liked
to direct but
I was playing
Doctor Chumley.
The
next time I saw
Chuck Fuller he
said, “I
want his eyes
gouged out.”
“Neat,”
I said.
I
went to the Mom
n Pop store at
Burnaby and Main
and bought a large
yellow grapefruit.
Back in my room
I gouged holes
in it. I imagined
the squirtings
were blood and
I got pretty darn
enthused.
The
next day at Peggy’s
Pie Shoppe I tried
the key lime.
Cook stayed with
lemon meringue.
I ate with my
knife very carefully.
When he left,
I followed. We
passed a pumpkin
patch and I rushed
over and gouged
a few to get in
the spirit. In
the middle of
my gouging I looked
up and there was
the professor
right in front
of me and speaking
to me. “Krutzinger,
why don’t
we walk together?
We obviously go
the same way.”
“Sure,”
I said.
“Classes
going okay? Any
problems?”
“Nah.”
“Anything
you want to talk
about?”
he urged. His
brown eyes looked
so kind and pitying
I felt like he
could be a friend
or like a grandfather
or priest.
“Well,
there is one thing,”
I said. “You
gave Chuck Fuller
an F and he’s
pretty upset about
it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah
if I were you,
I’d be careful.
Chuck is pretty
big on getting
even if you know
what I mean.”
“Well
thanks, Krutzinger,
I appreciate the
warning. I’ll
try to be very
careful.”
We
reached the professor’s
house and he shook
my hand and said
“Goodbye,
Krutzinger, and
you take good
care of yourself
too.”
I
walked home thinking,
“Oh cripes,
now what do I
do? Chuck will
be so disappointed.
Besides that I’ll
be kicked out
of the STUDS.”
I
was always a better
director than
an actor. I knew
there was a community
theatre in town
and those were
the actors I needed,
not some newbie
college kids.
So I quickly wrote
a one-act play
and got mature
male actors to
play the parts
and we all went
over to where
Chuck Fuller lived
in his parent’s
basement apartment.
Chuck
was drunk but
not so drunk he
didn’t get
the message. And
the message was—he
was in trouble
with the town
police, the state
police, and the
FBI. They were
investigating
a murder-for hire
scheme that he
had tried to hire
me to kill a professor.
They convinced
him that they
had evidence and
that he was not
to leave town
until the case
was ready to be
prosecuted and
that could take
a couple years.
It was a very
award winning
community theatre
and Chuck had
the crap scared
out of him. He
kept saying “I
won’t leave
town, I promise.
Don’t tell
my mom and dad,
please!”
“We
always expect
you to live here
in your parent’s
basement until
the case is ready
to be tried. Comprende?”
“How
will I know when
I can move on?”
“You
will receive an
official letter
from us if you
are cleared of
the crime. Do
nothing, go nowhere
until then.”
I
thanked the actors
and paid them
with my parent’s
credit card. They
thought Chuck
had played a good
role too. “Yep,”
I said, “he’s
an up-and-coming
actor on campus.”
So
then I resigned
from the STUDS
and I left school
and went to New
York and became
a fairly well
known director
of stage plays.
Each year though
I would go back
to the campus
in that sleepy
little town to
make sure Professor
Cook was still
alive and teaching
Trig and then
I would go and
hang out near
Chuck Fuller’s
parent’s
house and peek
in at the basement
and see if Chuck
was still there.
I would find him
drinking Gatorade.
But
yesterday was
a little disturbing.
It had been six
years since the
incident and Professor
Cook was fine
but Chuck was
missing. There
were no lights
on in his basement
apartment.
I
knocked on the
front door and
Mr. Fuller answered.
“Chuck
around?”
I asked.
“And
you are?”
“An
old buddy,”
I answered.
“I’m
afraid Chuck doesn’t
live here anymore.
He’s had
a, well, a nervous
breakdown and
we had to put
him in the state
mental facility.”
“Temporarily,
I hope.”
“No,
I’m afraid
it’s not
a temporary thing.”
“I’m
really sorry,”
I said and I meant
it. Cripes, I
was really sorry!
Jeez, did I do
that?
I
tried to figure
out if it was
my fault. Could
he not stand living
with his parents?
Was he scared
of the town police,
and state police,
and the FBI? I
wondered if I
should devote
my life to helping
him over his mental
problems, move
back here from
New York, give
up my wonderful
life as a stage
director, and
plead with God
to forgive me
for what I had
wrought.
Nah,
I like New York.
I like my life.
After all, he
did want me to
commit murder.
Krutzinger
Copyright
2012 by Phyllis
Green
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