From The Case Files of Dr. Randall Herringwick
The Case of the Devil's Advocate
Chapter One - Satanism, Manhattans and Paraphilias
CASE FILES - PERSONAL NOTES - PATIENTS 333 &334 - DAY ONE
Have you ever heard an old guy say: "If I had my life to live again, I wouldn't change a thing"? Well, that's bullshit. Everybody, and I mean everybody, does things he or she later regrets and wishes that there was an opportunity for a do-over. I certainly know that's the case with me.
Now, don't get me wrong; I'm very happy in life, and I love how it's all turned out. But there ARE some regrets. This tale is going to be about one of those... but with a twist. While it was all unfolding, I relished it, though it was decidedly weird. Afterwards, when things got even weirder, I regretted it immensely, and wished I could take it all back. But even later, when things got to be their weirdest, I wound up accepting it... or maybe I just tried to justify it. I don't know. Whatever. I've got to admit, though, it's one hell of a story. No pun intended.
I'm not much of a socializer. When I find myself in a party setting, I try to find the corners of a room and keep out of the way. And, the LAST thing I want to have happen is to find myself talking shop. Maybe all doctors are like that. Somebody walks up to a physician and says: "Hey, doc, I've got this pain in my elbow...." I mean, that's bad enough. You can just imagine what it's like for psychiatrists. Freudian conjecture in a public setting can become very embarrassing very fast.
But I couldn't get out of THIS party. I was the host. It had become sort of a tradition; though this was only the third time. When somebody new moved into my apartment building, I had everybody down for dinner and cocktails.
Okay, it's time to introduce the characters. Now, please bear with me; I commiserate with you. It's one of the things I hate about reading an Agatha Christie novel, though I like her stuff. She DID tend to have too many characters, though. Anyway, I'll try to help you keep everybody straight in this tale. I'll tackle them in their order of arrival in the building.
First, there's yours truly: M.D., professor of psychiatry and erstwhile evil mad doctor. Pleased to meet you. Next, my lovely wife, nurse and social director: Loretta. The love of my life. We live in the first (ground) level apartment, while my offices take up the other half of the floor.
Next to move into the building: the two people who were NOT there that night: my building superintendent Rory and his lovely girlfriend (and soon-to-be wife) Lauren. They were in Boston, where Rory was finishing up the last semester of an undergraduate degree in Architecture at MIT, while their apartment in the basement was waiting for them when they decided to return. Before they left, however, Rory had all four of the upstairs apartments ready to rent. Anyway, those two people would not figure into this adventure until it was over, so just forget them for the time being.
Our first two tenants were Daphne Ludwig and Simone Roderick in 2A. They were the topic of another of my little Case Files. Simone was one of the most innocent individuals I've ever met, completely open and honest with all those around her. Daphne, on the other hand, has a gift. You'll encounter it in our tale of that evening's events. The term "hypnotic eyes" is a rather tired cliché; but in Daphne's case, it was surprisingly true. She not only possessed such a feature, but she knew it... and she knew how to use it. (She's a remarkable woman, and a very good friend.) I should also mention that these two ladies were very much in love... with each other... and that they had recently voiced an interest in marriage themselves.
Next up, in 3A, we had another couple who was absent, but had given me an indication that they hoped to show up later in the evening: Terry and Lily Randolph. Terry struck me as a rather insecure individual, tall and gangly, quiet and withdrawn; the type of person who wouldn't hurt a fly. And yet, as meek as he was, Lily was even more so. Her eyes were constantly cast toward the ground, never able to meet those of the people around her. She also had the habit of blushing for seemingly no reason whatsoever. It made me uneasy, constantly wondering if my fly was open or something. And then it made me curious. What thoughts was the woman having to make her react so? I had to admit, though, she was an attractive girl: Asian in ancestry, slim but curvaceous, small but with very generous breasts, and jet-black hair that was almost always braided into a long ponytail that hung to the top of her tantalizing ass. Both individuals were young, the south side of twenty-five, I guessed (correctly). He worked for the state as a computer technician, with offices in the capitol building. She evidently worked several jobs in order to help make ends meet financially. She was a waitress a couple days a week; and she sometimes cleaned rooms at a nearby hotel; but all her work seemed to be part-time.
Apartment 3B was still vacant. And so, that brings us to our guests of honor in 2B, Charlie and Nadia Porter, who had moved in on Monday (this was a Friday). They were both in their late thirties, and they'd been married long enough to have reached the "comfortable" stage. He was a Social Studies professor at a junior college in the western part of Providence. Nadia owned a small boutique on Douglas Avenue. Nice folks. It was on this evening that I learned that Charlie liked Manhattans. For those of you who are unfamiliar, a Manhattan is a drink made with whiskey (in this case, Bourbon), bitters and sweet vermouth. I was NOT overly familiar, but I became a might TOO familiar that evening. As did we all. And therein lay part of the problem.
Two drinks before dinner. Two bottles of Cabernet with the lasagna, and into our second drink in the living room afterwards. I can't really put my finger on the moment it began to happen, but a strange sort of mellow sexual dynamic began to form in the room about 10:00 or so. It was so subtle that all of the participants in our little drama just seemed to accept it. Now, don't get me wrong; the evening was not in danger of morphing into some sort of orgy or anything. I don't think anybody really wanted that. We were all, every one of us, in love with our spouses or partners; and we were more than satisfied with that. But... something shifted in the mood of the room.
Loretta and little Simone were giggling and confidential on the sofa; and Charlie was openly staring at the two of them, especially in the vicinity of their breasts, which seemed to make the girls giggle even more. Nadia was hard to read. She, too, seemed engrossed (to the point of distraction) by the two girly-acting women on the couch. (For those readers who have not browsed my other Case Studies, perhaps I should have mentioned that both Loretta and Simone are sexually submissive. And, anyone who has studied the art of reading body language and personal mannerisms would immediately know this.) But to add to the weirdness, Nadia kept casting glances at her husband, as well. I slowly became aware that, in addition to the female-female dynamic involved, she was immensely interested in her husband's reaction to it.
And, in my periphery, I became aware of Daphne watching ME. Not in a sexual manner, mind you. Daphne was just about as pure a lesbian as I have ever met, and she loved her partner dearly. But she also had a profound interest in the interactions between people, and she craved more of the professional knowledge that I had locked away in my cranium. I didn't really mind her doing this. There are always avid amateurs swimming in the waters of every professional pond. And, like I said before, she was a good friend. Now, noting my interest in the psychological interactions in the room, she was wondering what exactly I was observing. (It was this curiosity that would soon send the evening spiraling out of control... but, of course, I didn't know that at the time.)
And suddenly, like the bursting of bubbles, these varying frames of mind were shattered by a knocking on the door as we were interrupted by the arrival of our two missing guests from 3A, Terry and Lily Randolph. This involved all the types of pleasant shifts in conversation that one might imagine; for nothing is more logical at a party where people have had too many drinks than to mix more of them at the slightest excuse. And our leering friend, Charlie, had immediately announced that we needed another round of these dainties fixed posthaste so that our new guests could sample my expertise in mixology. I, myself, was saved from this overindulgence by the simple expedient of running out of ingredients. I found that we were critically low on maraschino cherries, which happens to be the required garnish for a Manhattan.
