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The Symbiosis

One Danny Randolph always shaved before a murder. He ran a hand over his face and neck, checking for stubble. The triple-bladed, pivoting-head razor had left it silky smooth. He gazed ahead of him into the mirror, looking at an almost perfect likeness of the actor Pierce Brosnan. “My name is Bond--James Bond,” he said to himself, punctuating the remark with a crinkly-eyed smirk. The smirk--that’s what reeled in the women. Randolph ejected the razor head into the trash. No company had yet made a blade that could provide him with a close shave more than once. Randolph lifted his neck and took one more look before turning away from the mirror. He enjoyed the rare feeling of air on his face. Tearing himself away from his reflection, Randolph went to the kitchen and double-checked the refrigerator to make sure he had disposed of all perishable items. He turned off all the lights and paused at the front door. He checked the peephole, saw nobody. He carefully donned a Houston Astros baseball cap--he didn’t want to mess up his precisely gelled hair--slipped a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, and pulled up the collar on his thin leather jacket. With the coast still clear, Randolph left his apartment and made it down to his Mercedes sport sedan without incident. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, beginning the sixty-minute trek to downtown Houston. After travelling a couple miles, he removed his cap and glasses. “Dancing is sinful, Danny,” he heard his mother screech inside his head. “What do you know about it?” Randolph asked aloud. He thought back to himself as a thirteen-year old, walking up behind his mother, in her bathrobe, sitting on the couch, reading the list of arrests in the newspaper. “Those nightclubs are nothing but dens of iniquity,” she continued. The teenage Randolph looked over his mother’s shoulder and down the front of her bathrobe. He glimpsed a breast with its large, brown nipple. “Shut up, Mother,” Randolph said as he drove. He imagined himself pulling a hammer from him pocket and driving the claw end into the back of his mother’s head, again and again. Randolph shook his head clear of the vision. He punched the power button on the stereo, turned up the volume as loud as it could go without producing distortion. ZZTop’s “Sharp Dressed Man” blared at him through the speakers. He felt as if the long-bearded guitar players were performing on the hood of his car. AC/DC’s “Back in Black” followed, with Foreigner’s “Juke Box Hero” after that. The set was tailor-made for me, thought Randolph. By the time he turned into The Bayou’s parking lot, he had buried images of his mother in layers of heavy metal. Randolph went to the back of the long line that extended from the front door. Among a group that was about to enter the club, a woman stood six inches above her friends--she was at least five foot ten--and her long black hair and dark eyes gleamed in the streetlights. She wore a black, hip-hugging mini-dress--not as mini as some, but enough to show extensive legs outlined in black pantyhose. His gaze moved to her waist and hips. Two years ago, he had seen a television program entitled “The Science of Sexual Attraction” and learned that a waist-to-hip ratio of point seven drew men more than any other trait. Randolph used to keep a small tape measure in his pocket to check the validity of this data, which his experiments proved to be true. Now he could recognize point seven curves on sight. The woman must have felt his stare, because she made eye contact with him and smiled. Randolph sent her back a crinkly-eyed smirk. The woman leaned toward a friend, said something in her ear, and they both giggled. The bouncer let her pass without checking her ID. Randolph entered the club and headed straight for the dance floor. He started in on his moves, a modern version of timeless Travolta hip gyrations. Women began moving closer and turning their bodies toward him, trying to partner up with the best dancer on the floor. Randolph spurned these efforts and continued to move across the crowded dance floor. He scanned the club as he danced. He saw her sitting at a table with her friends, drink in hand. She had been watching him, and she smiled when their eyes met. When the song ended, Randolph found an open barstool and ordered a drink. Sipping slowly, he waited. When his glass was half empty, Randolph felt a tap on his shoulder and turned. She smiled nervously and leaned close to ear. Her hair smelled like raspberries. “Wanna dance?” she asked. “Sure, but give me a minute to finish my drink first.” Randolph stood. “Have a seat.” “Thanks.” She sat, and Randolph lightly placed a palm against her back, as if only to balance himself while he leaned toward her. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Adelle.” “That’s a beautiful name. Uncommon. Sounds like an exotic flower, or maybe a variety of rose.” “Thanks, but it actually means noble, or of kind spirit.” “Either way, it fits you well. It’s got an old-fashioned ring to it, but classic, not frumpy.” Adelle chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to be frumpy.” “You have nothing to worry about there. You ready to dance?” “Sure.” Randolph took Adelle by the hand and led her onto the dance floor. In his peripheral vision, Randolph saw Adelle shoot her friends an excited look as they moved toward an open space. Although he would never have entered a dance contest with Adelle, Randolph enjoyed the feel of her hips as they moved. After twenty minutes, Adelle signaled that she was ready to take a break. She took him by the hand and they walked toward her friends’ table. She put her lips close to his ear. “What’s your name?” “Chuck.” “That’s a beautiful name.” “Thanks. It’s a type of meat.” They both were laughing as they reached the table. Adelle had to yell to be heard over the music “Hey guys, this is Chuck.” The “guys” all smiled and waved. Randolph returned the gesture. Adelle pointed to each of her friends and called out their names. The first friend’s name was either Mindy or Cindy, and after that, Randolph didn’t have a clue. As they sat down, he was careful not to touch the glass table with his fingertips. Adelle leaned close again. “We’re all seniors at U of H. Trying to get as much fun in as we can before going out into the real world.” “What’s your major?” “Art history.” “Are you going to be a curator?” “I wish. Too many competitors for too few jobs. No, I’m being practical, getting my teaching certificate. I’d like to teach art to elementary school children.” Randolph nodded, pretending to be impressed by her commitment to tomorrow’s youth. “Sounds great.” “I like working with kids. So what do you do?” “What?” “What do you do? What’s your job?” “Do you want to go outside to talk? I hate having to yell, and the smoke’s starting to get to me.” “Sure.” They walked back to the entrance, got their hands stamped so they could re-enter the club, and went outside.

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