Smile For The Reaper -------------------- Introduction Oh my Rosemary! Rose, Rosie, Rosalyn. A sweet fleur, vertu engendered, hidden amongst the thorns. Tendrils tiptoeing along the t-t-t-trellis. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, virgin Mary, Rosemary. Mary, merry, marry me, Rosemary. You could have married me. Parsley, sage -- Rosemary. Thyme -- where has all the time gone? This is my confession. I confess! I confess! Here is a timeline: In May 1974 I was born. I confess; Mr. and Mrs. Supro confess. I lived my childhood in Santa Rosa, California. Her name, even in that early stage, and I never noticed! A happy childhood. Smiling pictures between cardboard and plastic, mommy and daddy and baby Clivy. And all that. None of this is important. I was accepted to the University of Southern California and arrived there August 23, 1992. This is important. On September 2, I first saw my love. This is important. And now I am in jail. A warning, dear reader: any persons, places, things, events, memories, narrators, resemblances or otherwise bear no relation to anything in reality. Names, in certain cases, have been changed. Not, however, to protect the innocent. There are no innocents. Start over: My name is Clive Supro and I am in jail. I am writing this, my confession. I confess everything. I regret nothing. I did what I had to do. Her name was Rosemary Brudry and she is dead. I loved her more than life itself, and she is dead. My Rosemary, Rosemary Rose! I: The Life Force and the Death Wish A typical stroll to class takes five minutes; that's how far Taper Hall was from my residence hall, the nominalistically correct description of the same type of immature society deemed simply a dormitory by less-evolved institutions. Two beds per room, large enough to be comfortable but small enough (supposedly) to discourage student sex. Needless to say, a failed goal. I lived, for many months, among a well-defined group of football fanatics and drunkards, engineering honors students who wore fluorescent t-shirts, girls smart enough not to have joined a sorority but dumb enough to want to anyway, and ambitious decadents who kept purity score totals on their doors and were quick to lower the sum after completing one of the few possible remaining perverse actions. And I? I have no description for myself. Tall. Fair. Intent. Artistic in a non-presumptuous sort of way. It doesn't matter. I was, put simply, none of the above. So I did my homework (what little there was, when I was in the mood) and miserably contemplated various suicidal techniques, which failed regardless of my well-constructed intentions to arouse any sort of masochistic enthusiasm within me. Rosemary was my only light. The first time I saw her, she was wearing a red floral print dress. Her hair was down; it hung over her shoulders with flowery grace and danced about in the breeze, stopping at odd moments to investigate whether or not it ought to twirl around its partner the face, then deciding at the last minute to whirl back around with a brisk shake of neck. Her entire body moved with unbearable grace. She was beautiful. Of course, of course. But she was! I remember staring for minutes: at her, at the ground, at the tree, at the ugly pigeon longing for yet another scrap of Flamin' Hot Cheet-Os dropped by an unsuspecting customer who had been thoroughly revolted by his sample, at her again, at myself. Standing thus stunned in the center of Trousdale Parkway, I took the opportunity to shout with utmost distress to her waning image and cruel fates in general, "Stop it! S-S-S-S-STOP IT!" I neglected to mention that I have a bad stutter. No one bothered to look. I could have been being raped or maimed. I was not, fortunately. I didn't see her again for days and was beginning to think the whole incident was surely a figment of my testicular-constipation-induced delirium (what a haze I knew in my imagination!) that I was shocked to find her outside Taper Hall. She was alone, and my heart drew a tentative breath of relief. If this rose were claimed already -- nipped in the bud, as popular expression might have it -- then I should surely die painfully of arteries clogged by year after year of impossible love. I confess -- I still look at Stephanie's window whenever I am home and drive by. For seven months I loved her, loved her as much as anyone can possibly love someone -- but that is over now. I only bring it up now, dear readers who are so quick to surmise my crime, as an example, as historie passe, so to speak. Stephanie, if you read this, hello. I loved you once. I do not love you now. You have not that to fear. You were an impossible love, taken before I had a chance. I hoped it would not be the same with this new sprite who had suddenly joined my world. My Rosemary, Rosemary Rose, sat alone, and I seated myself only three tree-shadows away, and literally vibrated with passion. I kept a steady gaze, being careful not to look her in the eye. Not this soon. Not yet. Ten minutes later she was gone; around the corner where I was too weak with love-sickness to follow. I would see her tomorrow. I ambled over to her recent concrete cushion and stared it down. I pressed my fingers against its fading warmth, pleading it to sprout Braille and tell me everything it had learned from its close contact with this virginal creature. I remained at the spot until all remaining warmth must necessarily have been my own, then walked drearily away. I was half an hour late for class. It was the same the next day, and the next. It was heaven. I confess. I confess that it was heaven. Through careful observation (perhaps it was spying -- I certainly learned nothing that anyone in my position shouldn't have learned) I learned more about her. For one, she sat on the same concrete throne day after day (Virgin Mary and the rock of ages?) This proved to be to my advantage, as I could easily reserve a daydreaming space nearby each noontime. My heart relaxed eventually after empirical observation of an apparent lack of romantic attachment, but she had friends, male and female, who would sit by her, sit by my Rosemary, or stop by and say hello -- "What's up?" or "How's it goin'?" -- while slang, were much less baffling to the foreigner than the cryptic " 'Sup, y'all?" I heard in the hallway later that week, some black girl massacring the English language. It makes no difference that she was black. Forget that she was black. Forget that she was female, for that matter. Forget it.) And most importantly, I learned her name (and, as the careful and clever reader should be able to extrapolate it from the preceding events, I shan't redundantly disclose it.) Suffice to say, a beautiful name; not the standard Jenny or Carrie or Mary or whatever other. A rare name, a suitable name. I sat on the concrete park bench (dedicated to Valery Z. Goish, class of ----) in sublime contentment with the universe. Valery and I, though, rested in supreme jealousy of the lucky concrete slab a few yards away. This continued day after day; merrily, Rosemarily, merrily, Rosemarily, life is but a dream. Repeat round indefinitely, stop time. Then stop: lo, a voice I heard behind me. It said: "Hiya." II: Distraction It was not Rosemary (I apologize for any confusion.) It was someone else. Female, however. I turned around and recognized her as a somewhat furtive face which had appeared suspiciously frequently over the course of the last week. "Hi, my name is Bess. Bess Wigs," she said. "I'm C-C-C-Clive." I studied her face -- long, bony with a sort of mildly detached look of cynicism. In comparison to Rosemary, who I had been giving all my attention to up to this untimely interruption, Bess wore very loose, casual jeans. She sat down, uninvited, beside me. "You are always looking at her. You shouldn't look at her so much." I glared at her. First of all, I thought my passions had been rather restrained. And furthermore, what right did she, a not-so-innocent bystander, have to butt into my romantic daydreaming? "Why not?" I asked. "Some evil will come of it," she said, turning the page in our conversation. "And I'm in love with you." I laughed. I scoffed. I coughed. I told her to leave my fantasizing alone. She wouldn't leave. Said she wanted me to take her out to the movies, to see "Point of No Return". I declined, so three hours later I was out ten bucks and was left stranded at her door, wishing only to know where my sweet Rosemary was. Rosie, Rose dear, forgive me, but I began then to feel quite guilty for my obsession. No matter that your beauty far surpassed any other in my eyes -- Bess Wigg had firmly planted a bitter seed in my mind. "You're wasting your life," she had said. "Why don't you try living, instead of sulking for days on end over some girl's face?" I suppose she had a point, and I returned home forlornly, hating myself for such obscene lust and hating Bess for making me realize it. I had somehow entered into an agreement to breakfast with her the following morning (God knows how.) Until then, however, I was free to pursue my true love. I wandered around campus rather aimlessly, my search fruitless. Rosemary was gone. Had Bess taken her somewhere? I would never forgive her. But that seemed unlikely, and once again waves of guilt began caressing me, touching me like I pictured her hands touching me, bringing me to the point -- Afterward, I felt nauseated, sick with guilt. What sort of fool was I? What sort of pervert, at that? Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps I was a pervert. I confess. The city closed in around me; smog and haze, haze and smog. Grey buildings like deodorized armpits, framed by quaint red brick paths. A billboard in the distance, near the extremely phallic "Let's Do Bud" beer ad which read "Confess, Sinner, Confess: Borin Manors Holy Spirit¬ Confessionals." III: Sects & Death And then it dawned on me: a true means to salvation (and not salivation). How many days had I passed by this monolithic structure without realizing the opportunity it presented. I would cleanse myself. I would scrub with all my might to remove the stains of longing. I would wash my scabbed feet in the holy water of God, be forgiven for my lustful nature and bask in the radiance of the true heavenly spirit. I dabbed the remnants of my fantasy from my belly and joyously walked to a phone booth. I would be free once more! It would be my liberation, a whole new life; a brave new world. This I thought to myself as I marched along. The duracell-powered flashlight of God shone all around. It shone on the holy rain-damaged roofs of the residence halls nearby; it shone on the eager faces of the homeless seeking their daily bread; and most of all it shone on me, basking in its light like a client in a tanning salon, knowing that utter harmony is near (in retrospect, perhaps the tanning salon might have been a better idea.) Borin Manors was right there in the "Churches" section of the yellow pages, and the evening was only half elapsed, so I took the first bus out, arrived at the church and sat at the confessional. A fire alarm went off across the street; I scarcely noticed. I would soon be free from the slavery of my mind, and realizing that I felt, for the first time, a deep and utter understanding of the Catholic Church. How simple it all seemed, now that I knew what I wanted, now that I knew I must free myself from thinking of Rosemary, Rosie, Sweet Rose, the flower child I knew. Oh Rosemary, forgive me! So I confessed, sinner, confessed -- confessed all of this evil lust and bodily unrestraint. I wept and asked for forgivance, and I was forgiven. The priest took my terrible confession and eighty dollars, whispered the solemn rites, and gave me, as a bonus, a little rosary to help me restrain my passion. With it (i.e. the holy spirit) I would never fail in my purity, he said. I thanked him profusely and resolved to do what I had to. I met Bess for breakfast the next morning. I apologized for all I had said the previous evening, and generally made amends and did all that healthy relationship stuff. Then I took her home and killed her. You weren't expecting that, were you? Or perhaps you were. In either case, here is how I murdered Bess Wigg: "I will w-w-w-walk you home from breakfast," I said cheerily. "Wonderful," she said, smiling dazedly. "How was the omelette?" I asked. "Wonderful," she said. We walked in silence to her dorm room, whereupon I entered, closed the door, and grabbed her shoulders. "Take me," she said. I put my hands around her neck until she died, then laid her out across her bed in mock crucifixion. She died for my sins. IV: Point of No Return Freed now from the slavery of my mind and Bess, I set out to make my intentions known to my Rosemary, Rosemary Rose. Rose, Rose, bo-berry, fee-fi-fo-ferry, me-my-mo-Mary, Rosemary. Unbeknownst to poor unsuspecting I, Rosemary had found an escort. His name was Bud; I recognized him as the annoying fart -- er, frat -- guy that lathered infinite (and up until now, ignored) affection on dear Rose. But seeing the two together, arm in arm, was enough proof that Bud must have changed his style. It made me sick. How could she do this to me? It was just like everyone else; now, when I had the courage finally to confess my love, she had spurned me. I resisted the urge to stab myself. Instead, I marched up to Bud (traipsed, waltzed, ambled.) He eyed me jocularly, his mouth twisting into a snicker. He spat on me. I looked in vain at Rosemary, but her visage was simply one of pity. "Scat," Bud eloquently ordered. I did not. "Now l-l-l-look here," I began. "We can d-d-discuss this like real men." He looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Oh really," he sneered. "Y-y-yes. Like in days of old, I challenge you to a tournament." This puzzled him. "What for?" he asked. "For the l-l-l-love of Rosemary!" The words rang out like a cornet's fanfare. "Puh-puh-puh-puh please," spake Bud as he walloped me across the face. I cringed with the sudden rush of blood to my nose as the pair walked away. V: Holy Spirits I was at a crossroads; I didn't know what to do. I had managed to return to my own room and repair my nose as much as was possible. I lay on my bed with overriding feelings of gloom and rejection. I contemplated suicide, and was about to slit the old wrists when I saw my rosary peeking out from a coat pocket. With love in my heart I scooped it up and prayed for help from the Holy Spirit (r). That evening, that fateful evening, found me at Rosemary's apartment complex with a six-pack of beer (ladies and gentlemen, my name is Clive Supro, and I am not an alcoholic. Hate the stuff.) This holy spirit was for Bud: a peace offering, some might say. I rang her doorbell and waited patiently. Bud answered, looked at me in disgust and the beer in surprise. He seemed unable to coagulate the two into one reality. "Bud, I'm sorry about this morning," I lied, "I thought you might take this as a token of my forgiveness. Mind if I join you?" He didn't, as long as he was drunk. I sat down a comfortable distance away from both (no need to scare anyone), and carried out pleasing smalltalk for about half an hour until the poison in Bud's drink kicked in. "Bud, wake up, Bud," Rosemary said. She was so beautiful, even then. So caring! I smiled carefully. "Looks like he's had one too many." "He hadn't had any before you got here," she said, concerned. "I'm going to call security. He's scaring me." I beat her to the phone -- smashed it against the refrigerator. She screamed, of course, but I soon had my hand over her mouth to prevent any further outbursts. "Rosemary, Rosemary my love," I whispered. "Now we can finally be together." She squirmed under my embrace. "I love you, I love you, I love you," I told her. "I love you more than life itself. I loved you from the moment I first saw you." The rest of my speech can be found in any decent B movie. "Tell me you love me," I pleaded, and uncovered her mouth for the first time. Crying, she collapsed. "You're sick, Clive, you're sick." I could only stare. This was it. This was my final rejection. There was no turning back. The rosary, the holy spirit (r) was in my hand; I felt its warmth in my pocket as I threw myself upon my true love. My passion mingled with her tears, and as she started to scream, I drew the rosary out and strangled her. I heard her last breath wheeze out. Was it my imagination, or did she then say "I love you"? I shall never know. I wept and kissed my lover's body. I decapitated the corpse and kissed it on the lips -- no, just kidding, that's another story. But, ladies and gentlemen, I wept. I cried. The tears flooded from my eyes. My Rosemary, Rosemary Rose, gone forever. Appendix I wrote this for my CORE 112 class, Spring 1993. The names are all anagrams. The reference to the decapitated head is to Oscar Wilde's "Salome", which we studied in that class. The assignment was to write something as entwined as Nabakov's "Lolita". Having just rediscovered this in my archives, I'm rather surprised I still like it so much (except part one, which could use some work). Hope you enjoyed it. (8 July 95)