Harold's Eyes

By Eric Redinger

 "Chicks dig me." He announces to the reflecting glass, "Always have.  Always will."  Harold leans close, the ledge of the counter digging into his soft middle.  His tattered tee shirt bulging out and overflowing onto the countertop, stretching as is holds back the flab.  He focuses on his eyes, one at a time.  First the left, then the right.  The large gray iris of each are peppered with brown spots, his pupils like black holes which pull you in, capturing you in their depths. 

"It's all about the eyes." He smiles.

      Stepping back, he bumps his heel against the bathtub behind him creating a low mournful tone as the tub reverberates.  The sound is lost in the rhythmic thumping of the party ensuing throughout the house - rattling the small room.  Harold lifts the front of his worn tee shirt, uncovering his pasty white potbelly covered with swirls of dark hair.  He turns side-to-side, admiring every angle and twice slapping his stomach to watch it quiver.  He releases his shirt, the word Ozzy splayed across the chest.  He runs his right hand through his sebaceous hair, the yellow stain of his armpit contrasts the white of his shirt.  

"Those pretty boys out there have nothing on you."  He tells himself.  A quick wink and he turns left, out the door and past the line of people waiting. 

      The house is alive with writhing bodies; deep bass tones pounding while dancers move in tune.  Everybody grooving to the beat - except Harold.  He walks directly into a group of three girls.  All pretty girls, obviously not old enough to be drinking.  One in a short black skirt and a clingy black turtleneck.  Another in jeans and a pink crop-top.  The third in black leather pants and a tight red shirt, the most attractive of the three. 

"How's it going, ladies?"  He asks in his supremely confident voice.  He notices that one of the girls, the one with leather pants and red top, immediately rolls her eyes and glances at her companions - sticking her tongue toward the side of her mouth and slightly distorting her face as she does so; obviously unimpressed by Harold's presence. 

That's the one.  Harold thinks.  He loves a challenge.  He loves being pigeonholed as a fat slob who will probably never get laid. 

You won't even know your head from your ass by the time I'm through with you, sweetheart.  Harold runs his tongue over his teeth in anticipation, saliva forming in the corner of his mouth. 

      "Well, ladies, I've got to get over to the keg.  I'll see you later."  Harold emphasizes as he brushes close by the girl in the tight red top, making sure to look directly into her eyes.  Immediately, her cold stare softens and she can't help but stare into Harold's deep eyes.  The moment only lasts a split second, but it's plenty of time for Harold to see exactly what he needs.  As he leaves he overhears the other two girls begin chatting in that drunken, high-pitched girly shrill.  Like a scratching nail on a chalkboard, or brakes locking-up before a fatal accident.  He doesn't catch what they're saying, but knows it's about him.  Within a couple more steps, the chosen one joins-in the commotion.

      The first keg is still heavy in the tub, covered in ice.  Another is sitting next to it, ready to be tapped when the first goes dry.  Happiness packaged in sixteen-gallon drums.  Ice cold bliss on tap.  Harold fills his glass - the fourth for the night.  He's slightly affected by the alcohol, being that he weighs two hundred forty pounds.  No, Harold's not there to get drunk or to make friends.  He throws these parties simply as a means to an end.  Harold has a very specific purpose and he won't spoil his plans by getting drunk and missing his cue. 

I've got all night, baby.  You just let me know when you're ready.

      As the party grows and shrinks, as the crowd writhes and breaths, so does the house.  It's old frame creaking and swaying ever so slightly.  Vibrating while it unnoticeably expands and collapses.  The house is a separate entity all its own.  Harold senses this, he sees what others miss because he actually sees what he's looking at.  When an artist looks at a blank canvas, they don't see blankness.  They see every blemish, every deformity, every unique ripple and scratch.  This is how Harold sees everything, especially people.  All you need is eye contact.  The eyes are the window to the soul. 

      Throughout the hours, Harold patiently waits.  Waiting for the right moment.

Rule one, Harold thinks, hit on the hottest chick there.  Harold's rules for shagging chicks...If he ever wrote a manual, he'd be a billionaire.  Rule one is a safe bet.  The exceptionally attractive woman is also the loneliest.  She's not used to men initiating actual conversation because most men are too intimidated by beauty.  Most men want her, but opt to hit on her not-so-hot friend because they think their chances are improved - not always the case.  If they do get the balls to talk to her, they usually stumble and bumble until finally resting their eyes on her chest, ass, legs, or anything other than her eyes.  So overwhelmed by beauty that they undermine their chances.  Pretty boys are usually dumb-asses.

Rule two, pick one and stick with her.  Never change your plan unless it's hopeless (but there's always hope).  Stick with the original choice, and never quit until you've either scored or she goes home.  There's always hope as long as there's beer.  And there's plenty of that here.

Rule three, be patient.  Never drink more than her and always pay attention.  Don't give up the advantage.  With every drink she takes, the easier it will be to manipulate her.  With every drink you take the less observant you become.  Take your time.  Good things come to those who wait...Really good things.

Rule four, always make eye contact.  There'll be plenty of time to look at her body later.  The last rule was the most important.  In order to act sincerely interested you must maintain eye contact.  It gives the illusion of interest and sincerity. 

When the last keg is nearly floating, and the tub is nearly full of water rather than ice, and the girl in leather pants is sufficiently drunk, Harold makes his move.  Stepping-out from a dark corner, smiling from ear-to-ear, with his nose tipped downward, making Harold look predatory,

"So, honey, what's your name?"  She turns with a jump, startled that someone else was in the bathroom with her. 

"Where'd you come from?  I thought I was in here alone."  She answers. 

That's not what I asked, you dumb bitch, but I don't care what your stinking name is anyway. 

"Really, well you've stumbled into the bathroom and I was in here first."  He makes sure to look directly into her bloodshot eyes.  She'll believe it because it's the truth. 

"I didn't see you in here, were you hiding or something?" 

Damn genius, you are baby.  I don't have time to play twenty questions, though.

 "I was standing right over here the whole time, I'm surprised you didn't see my reflection as you were touching-up your lipstick.  So, what's your name, sugar?" 

Her own thoughts are projected through her eyes, and Harold knows exactly what she must be thinking by reading her pupils.  She's wondering about his eyes, she can't quite place something in them...Forgiveness, warmth, but something deeper.  What is it?  She's must be wondering. 

"My name's Rain, you talked to me earlier, remember?" 

Actually I just looked into your eyes, I never asked you your name earlier.

 "That's a great name...Rain.  It's very befitting.  You have pretty eyes, Rain."  Harold's confidence ebbs from his pores as his greasy brow shines in the dim light.

Upstairs, in Harold's bed, Rain moans as her head reels back and her mouth stretches open.  Harold is behind her, pulling her hair with one hand as he pounds his mass against hers, disproving eons of proven physics.  Her slight body absorbs the relentless shockwaves starting deep down between her legs and undulating throughout her body. 

You'll take it, dirty bitch.  You'll like it!

 "Does it feel good?"  Harold sounds so sincere. 

"Oh, yea, oh, yea, feels good..."

"I'll stop if you want me to."

"No, don't stop, don't stop..."  Rain trails on and on. 

For what seems like an eternity, Harold takes Rain in every imaginable position and level of degradation.  He pushes the limitations of taboo further and further with each passing minute until finally Rain is completely corrupted.  It's worse than rape - convincing her that she wants every sick fantasy of Harold's as her own twisted dream of love.  He floods his senses until they've overflowed and can't attain any higher level of stimulation.  Rain is now worthless to him, and once she leaves he'll never talk to her again.

"I'll call you later, Baby."  Harold says as he walks Rain down the stairs and toward the door. 

"You'd better. "  She kisses him and gives him a big hug, her petite body engulfed by his huge amorphous weight.  As she walks out the door, she pauses and looks back.  Harold adjusts his gaze a little to let her really see into his soul.  His eyes seem different, not warm or forgiving at all.  Deeper...Deeper down they look hateful and malicious, controlling and conniving.  He knows Rain sees this because he sees the reflection of his own eyes on her fearfully dilating pupils.  Harold's Cheshire-cat smile is large in the surreal fun-house mirror reflection on Rain's eyes.  While shutting the door, he quickly winks to her at the last moment before the door is completely closed.                   

       
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