The Misogynist Ch. 01

Poor little Cheryl was lonely. She was a lonely woman. Soon she'd be thirty years old, and was still walking around with her cherry, a virgin. A virgin who'd never had a serious relationship with another man other than that stilted inflexible father daughter purgatory she'd grown up with. She'd never really kissed a boy, not as a child, not as an innocent adolescent on a first date, not as an adult. Not a real kiss. Never a real kiss.

There never had been a real first date. Never been a party other than the strictly controlled church parties where chaperones surrounded the children like medieval visages always shrouded in somber browns and blacks and ever ready to chastise even the most innocent social exploration.

It wasn't that she was unattractive, it was that she thought she was. The truth was Cheryl was a very pretty person, an elegant woman with undeniable physical and cultural gifts. She'd been physically attractive even as a little girl. That was the objective truth. But objectivity isn't necessarily the criterion the individual or the individual's significant role models abide by. Abnormal people in a deviant environment can pervert normal societal standards. Objectivity loses its substance in a subjective world where unreality becomes reality.

If a young girl believes she's homely, believes she's a wallflower, if she thinks she's Laura of the "Glass Menagerie" then who's to prevent her from acting out those thoughts. People who believe they aren't pretty don't act in pretty ways, they don't dress in pretty ways, and they don't manage their affairs in ways that would call attention to themselves in the ways a pretty person would.

A girl who has learned to be homely may never learn to experiment with mascara, or lipstick, or shorter skirts. She may never look in a mirror and fantasize. Never dream of becoming a movie star, a popular singer; not even a Fanny Price. The mirror would be her enemy, a constant reminder that she isn't one of the beautiful, one of the desirable people. If she believes the mirror only exposes her flaws, her shortcomings, her imperfections, then why go there? Why try? Why experiment if the belief is the only outcome will be scorn, ridicule, or most devastating of all, pity. Better to be alone than to be laughed at. Better to stay at home than go out and be the butt of sarcastic comments. Better to stay in one's room than expose oneself to that most degrading of all emotions, pity. What worse injury than exposure to some sad empathetic face, a face that sees the sorry, homely, plane girl in front of them.

This failure to see one's self objectively, as one really is can become a devastatingly vicious gnome, a troll that forever haunts every waking hour. It can be an insurmountable roadblock. For Cheryl that had been her curse, her crippling imperfection, the horror that reduced her from valid normal human being to piteous invalid.

Cheryl's childhood had been anything but pleasant. It had been a growing up period that underscored every weakness, every frailty, and every single self-conscious imperfection. Children can be cruel, but so can parents.

Parents can be the fountainhead of the inner self, or the seat of emotional self-destruction. One's ego, sense of person-hood, self-confidence, it all emanates from the parents. If the parents industriously, conscientiously shred their child's esteem, than what more damage can society really do? They don't even have to know they're doing it. Parents bring their own frailties, their own weaknesses to the classroom of parenthood. An emotionally malformed, socially defective parent can do irreparable damage and never even know.

Cheryl had been an only child growing up in a big suburb. When a child grows up on a four-acre lot there might not be anybody nearby to play with. Imagine an only child, in a huge house, no pets, only two adults, distant and sober, overseeing everything with a critical eye. Certainly normal healthy parents love their children, but they love them in normal healthy ways. Cheryl had loving parents too, but love can be exhibited in many ways. There can be the caring kiss goodnight, the hug at a job done well, the warm smile in the morning. But what if there is no kiss, no hug, or no warm smile? Then where does the child learn that they are loved, valued, esteemed, or seen as beautiful?

Cheryl had a mother. Her mother had a childhood once too, a childhood dominated by rules and regulations. Now Cheryl's mother's entire life was tightly regulated by an existence dependent on the alarm clock, the lunch bell, the afternoon dismissal bell, and the evening weather report. Her mother had been a public school teacher, a third grade teacher, the worst grade, the grade that needed the tightest discipline, the grade that allowed the least freedom, the least leeway, and the fewest opportunities for free thought and experimentation. It had never been entirely intentional, but what her mother's professional life, coupled with her own already internalized rigidity did was translate a frigid inflexibility, a prison like narrowness into her home life that precluded spontaneity or creativity.

Cheryl's mother relied on strict schedules, tight standards, inflexible compliance, and minimal, better say nonexistent, deviance from the prevailing standards as prescribed in the old 1920's teacher's manual she viewed as her personal Bible. For Cheryl life was destined to revolve around the same irrefutable, intractable, unbreakable standards. Violation, deviance, and above all defiance, resulted in immediate and terrifying rebuke.

From these antiquated, inhumane, and unforgiving regulatory patterns Cheryl learned the meaning of obedience, obedience born from fear. Not fear from physical pain, that fear came from somewhere else, but the fear of rejection, fear of denial, denial of even the scantiest shards of affection an equally crippled mother was barely able to deliver.

Then there was the father, a deeply religious conservative Christian, a man of the faith, a man of the cloth, of the most stiffly starched cloth. No living Presbyterian, Lutheran, Baptist, or Congregationalist could rival this man in his fervid determination to drive sin from society. No Jonathan Edward's sermon could withstand the power and evangelical zeal of her father. This zeal, this fervor, this fundamentalist energy played itself out most vigorously in front of the young girl. All sin meant damnation, and no sins were more damnable than the sins of the flesh, and that meant the vanities of the flesh. Lipstick, eye shadow, make up, hair ribbons, curls, jewelry, nail polish, these were the Devil's tools. No decent girl took note of such evil contrivances.

Even worse for the young girl were the Biblical standards to which she was expected to ascribe. Good girls were like Ruth, Naomi, and Mary. They were subservient, obedient, and humble. Bad girls were like Jezebel, Pharaoh's wife, the harlot, or that first disobedient miscreant Eve. For Cheryl's father good girls got their reward in Heaven, but for bad girls punishment was swift and sure, and it came with a hand, a paddle, or a switch. For her father physical suffering, like the suffering of Christ was a cathartic, it expunged the evil within, and her father was ever ready to expunge evil.

How Cheryl had even lived through the purgatory she called a home life was in itself an accomplishment, but she had. She not only lived through it, but she managed to get through high school and college. Of course, always the obedient, selfless daughter she followed in her mother's footsteps. She became a teacher. Not a hard-bitten third grade warden like her mother, there was still something deep within Cheryl the remorseless determination of her parents had never quite driven out.

Cheryl became a special education teacher, a teacher who helped the emotionally and physically handicapped. She despised the word handicapped. Her children, she swore, should never have to feel like they should stand before others as inferiors, cap in hand, pleading for a hearing.

In spite of all the savage discipline of her own horrid home life, Cheryl had somewhere, somehow, acquired a sensitivity, an appreciation, for the weaker, the more vulnerable in society. Maybe her own vulnerability had subliminally engaged her essential warmth. Cheryl had grown up in a Christian household, but it had been a wrathful Old Testament upbringing. Somewhere between the slaughter of the Canaanites and the butchery of the babies by Herod a true Christian soul had emerged.

Cheryl was a submissive, servile, obedient insecure woman, whose self-image buried her somewhere beneath the lowliest leper. Yet at the same time she a was warm, loving, caring, empathetic care giver, devoted to the children in her care and to anyone who showed any interest in her or in her causes. She was a victim waiting to be used and abused.

Turner was angry. He was angry with the government. He was angry with his boss and about his job. He was angry about where he fit in the social hierarchy. Everything about him indicated someone destined for a bad end. He was amoral, opportunistic, manipulative, and hateful. He, like poor Cheryl was a by-product of his environment. He like Cheryl was an only child, like Cheryl he had an over bearing tightly regimented mother whose own existence growing up had been devoid of even the least affection or love. The affect was devastating for Turner.

Turner grew up, not like other boys. Other boys had rules, had standards, they had discipline. Turner had none of those things. Like a pet dog, Turner was raised outside the normal push and shove of limits and borders. His mother saw Turner as her young god, the young Adonis who could do no wrong, and could never do anything that was less than perfect. Her pet name for her perfect little boy was 'My Young Prince'.

Every birthday, every Christmas, every important holiday saw Turner at the epicenter of some important affair. No birthday went without its concomitant party. Every party was heralded as the event of the season, and every child within earshot was expected not just to attend but to bring a splendid gift. Christmas was like a warehouse sale at Turner's house. Every gift imaginable was purchased. If he liked them it was wonderful. If he rejected one or another, it was due to the failure of the manufacturer to produce something worthy of him.

In school no teacher could correct him. After all, how could anyone correct perfection? Growing up he learned how to control and manipulate his friends, his teachers, adults, and girls, especially girls. He'd deflowered his first victim at the tender age of fourteen. He was fourteen. She was twelve. He had manipulated and managed her into a situation wherein she could do little else but surrender that singular possession all girls had to give only once. He'd done it in the most vicious, most conspiratorial way. Then he destroyed her in public, bragging and strutting about his deed, and no one called him for it. There were many who admired that kind of villainy. Even so, no one had the physical efficacy to challenge him.

In the words of some anonymous bard, 'When he walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He feared no evil, for he was the meanest mother-fucker in the Valley'. And Turner was the meanest in the valley, and in the school. Throughout his high school years he made a career out of badgering, bullying, and beating any and every other boy who wouldn't join his posse.

Turner's mother fawned over him slavishly. She bought him things. She arranged things. She ran interference in everything he did. No scrape, no misdeed, no violation was too difficult for Turner's mother. She always found a way to guarantee his invulnerability. She idolized him. He was the recipient of all the love and all the devotion she had never been given when she was growing up. All her parent's shortcomings were compensated for, and then over compensated for in him.

Turner's father was a career careerist. He devoted himself to the God Mammon. Where there was money to be made there was Turner's father. It didn't have to always be legal, only legal enough to guarantee he wouldn't get into trouble. Turner's father left a trail of broken lives, swindled families, and shady deals. For Turner's father 'nice guys always finished last', and he made sure Turner understood the rules of the road. God and religion had value. They had value as a means to bilk somebody else out of their hard earned savings. Rules were made to be twisted, and morality was the thing one used to shame the other guy in giving away everything he owned. These were valuable lessons, and Turner learned them all.

Turner went to college, graduated, and went into business. The business he went into was the business of Turner. Anything and everything that expanded Turner was good, and anything that served as a limitation, a constraint, was to be either avoided or changed. He'd gotten married, gotten divorced, gotten married again, and divorced again. It mattered little to him. Women were tools, his tools. If it was advantageous to treat a woman with courtesy then courtesy it was, but if cruelty was the watchword, then so be it. In fact, hurting women was fun. In some sense of the word it had become a secondary hobby, deflating and destroying women.

So there it was. A woman, lonely, insecure, with low self esteem, but beautiful in countless ways. And a man, ruthless, amoral, cruel, opportunistic, and with a personality dedicated to pain, pain for others, especially women, innocent women. Who could imagine what might happen if these two lives were to converge?

It was the last day of the school year, late afternoon. All her paperwork was completed, and Cheryl was ready to leave for the summer. This summer, like the last, and the last before that, and before that would be spent working the shelves at the big bookstore in the mall. It was minimum wage, minimum work, and minimum brain function, but it kept her busy till the next school term rolled around. She knew everybody who worked there, and for the most part she knew the clientele. What she most liked about it was the opportunity to see the new arrivals, and get the first pick of bestsellers. It also had a nice coffee shop. The mixed blends were always tasty, and people for the most part were quiet and considerate. If she didn't try to think about the future, or time, or how her life was drifting by unfulfilled and incomplete, she could even enjoy the hot days and balmy evenings. The bookstore was an escape, an escape from her life, from reality. She decided she better stop in today to see the assistant manager and make sure of her hours. They knew she was coming. She came every summer. She'd called ahead three weeks ago just to make sure. All in all it wasn't too bad. Life could be worse. Yeah she thought. She could get leukemia.

Three men were sitting in the coffee shop in the book store at the mall. First there was Turner, big man among the trio. The others included Turner's best friend and arch advocate Martin. The third man's name is irrelevant, him being just one of the many followers and hangers on Turner had become accustomed to over the years. Martin though, Martin was the closest thing Turner ever had to a real friend. Turner never had real friends; just other men whom he used and discarded as the need arose. Were there women? Of course there were women, but they had no status. They were just sex boxes for his semen. No man ever complained. Just being associated with Turner, even on the margins was considered something of an honor.

Turner had one of those sociopathic personalities that enabled him to read other people, know what they needed and be able to provide it while maximizing the return. Smart, personable, and totally without moral compass, Turner was a classic.

The third character in this sordid opening act leveled a dare. "I bet you can't turn the next woman who walks through that door into a whore?"

Neither Turner nor Martin paid the third man any attention. He was a blowhard hanger on. The kind of guy who in high school was always ready to pick a fight, but never prepared to back anything up, a great coat holder for the real warrior. Turner had always been the warrior.

Martin said. "Shut the fuck up. We're making plans."

Turner ignored both of them. He was totally bored, ready to leave.

Cheryl parked her car at the far end of the mall parking lot. After all it was only a short walk to the bookstore.

Turner flipped a couple coins on the counter. He was never extravagant with tips. If a waitress or waiter wanted more money they could get a better paying job. He spun around in the high-backed swivel seat just as Cheryl made her way into the store.

The third guy pointed at her. "Look. I bet you couldn't get her."

Turner cast a bored glance in the direction of the girl. Always quick to spot vulnerability an easy target he asked. "What did you want to bet?"

The third guy reiterated his earlier remark. "I bet you couldn't turn her into a whore."

Turner looked back at his challenger. "What do you mean, and what kind of bet are we talking about?"

The nondescript third party leveled the challenge. "I'll bet you $100.00 you can't get her to put out for each of us by say the end of the month."

Turner looked at the guy and laughed. "You'd be right jackass. A month's not enough time, and $100.00 isn't enough money."

The jackass upped the ante. $1,000.00 by the end of summer."

Turner grinned. "Summer ends on September 21st. Make it $2,000.00, and I'll deliver the bitch by Labor Day."

The jackass held out his hand. "It's a bet. Martin you're here as a witness."

Martin gave Turner a knowing look. He knew his boy's abilities. Turner had talent. That poor girl was already in bed and didn't know it. "As God is my witness. If Turner doesn't deliver the meat by Labor Day he'll deliver $2,000.0, but if he brings home the bacon, then jackass you owe him $2,000.00."

Jackass made one last stupid remark. "Someone take a picture. It's got to be that girl, no one else. I don't want Turner throwing in a ringer just to get the money."

Martin already had his cell phone locked in. "Picture taken." He raised his hand in mock salute. "I'll see that we all have a copy by tonight."

Turner held out his hand for jackass to shake. Jackass took his hand. Hands were clasped, a deal, a bet, a challenge had been laid out. Now it was time, Turner's time. "All right. Let's get going."

Jackass queried. "What no opening shots tonight?"

Turner gave him a disdainful look. "Does a tiger leap head long at his prey? No he stalks it, then pounces."

Jackass asked another stupid question. "How do you know you'll ever see her again?"

Turner didn't even answer. He knew she'd be back. As soon as he saw her he recognized the type. The only preliminary precaution he needed to make was to watch from outside when she left to make sure she wasn't an out of state visitor. If she were in state, she'd certainly be back. He looked at jackass. "Don't worry fuck stick. I know what I'm doing."

The three conspirators all got up and left the shop. A deal had been made, a victim had been sited. Now was the time for planning.

Turner discussed his options with Martin. They both agreed the best way to draw the girl in was to have Martin break the ice. Then Turner would appear and sweep her off her feet. Martin could serve as go between as they worked out what they wanted to do.

It was easy for Martin to get details about the girl. The nature of his job gave him a fair amount of independence. After just a few days he had her name, her address, her current work status, and thanks to his own natural adroitness he was able to discern she didn't have many friends, if she had any. By the end of the week it was clear the best place to begin was at the bookstore.