The Desert

I was east of the city on I-50. Well, not on I-50, but off I-50 in the desert. I was burying a body. I was dragging the body around a huge rock when I saw this other guy. He was dragging a body around too. (It was obvious from the duct tape and garbage bags.)

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said.

“You know burying bodies out here is illegal,” I said.

“Sure,” he said.

We both laughed. “This is a good place,” I said. “This is my favorite place.”

“This is where I bury all my bodies,” he said and laughed again. It felt as if he were trying to outdo me, trying to one-up me, trying to make me think he does this all the time.

“Yeah, me too. You lose count after a while,” I said.

“That’s for sure,” he said.

The conversation lulled. It was hard to make chitchat with a deranged serial killer. But then I realized he was probably thinking the same thing.

“My dad,” I said, and I looked down at the body I was dragging. I had put Dad’s body in a sleeping bag and tied it with quality nylon rope. I bought the best sleeping bag that REI carried. Nothing but the best for Dad. I took pride in my work.

“Ah,” he said. He didn’t offer any info about his victim.

“Who’s yours?” I said finally.

“Oh, sorry, right,” he said. “Uh, my girlfriend.” It looked like a twelve-year-old had wrapped the body. The body was wrapped in garbage bags and sealed with way too much duct tape. It was a mess. Honestly, I was embarrassed.

“That’s rough,” I said. “My dad was going to rat me out to the Feds.” I thought it was funny that I said, “Rat me out,” as if I were some sort of gangster. I laughed a little at the thought but turned away. I didn’t want this guy to see me laugh. I didn’t want him to think I was laughing about murdering my own father, that I was some sort of psychopath.

“Your own dad. Wow, that’s grim,” he said. “My girlfriend was sleeping with… someone.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, but I said it as if his girlfriend had died in an accident rather than he’d killed her. “How’d you do it?”

“Strangulation,” he said. “You?”

“Gun,” I said.

“Really? Didn’t anyone hear?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“I could never be sure, so I didn’t use a gun.”

“Yeah, it’s risky, but I really had no choice. Everything else was too complicated or too dangerous.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, don’t I know you?” I said.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I know I’ve seen you somewhere. Wait, I’ll get it.” I closed my eyes.

“The Drathe School of Law?” he said.

“Oh, God, yes!” I said.

“Hi, I’m the dean of the school, Robert Winters. Dean Winters, the Drathe School of Law,” he said. He dropped his body. It hit the ground with a thud. He brushed off his hand and shook my hand.

“Hi, I’m James Compton. I’m an associate at Taylor, McKnight, Dedman, and Taft,” I said. “I had you for Torts at Drathe.”

“Back in my law professor days,” he said. “I don’t really remember you, though. Sorry. Well, I remember your face—a little,” he said.

“Drathe is a big school.”

“Yes,” he said. He looked at Dad. “You’ll go far.” He laughed.

“What a sorry pair.”

“Not at all,” he said. “We’re being proactive. That’s better than 99% of the people out there.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Do you still practice?”

“Yes, when I find an interesting case,” he said.

I nodded. “We shouldn’t bury these bodies too close together.”

“Good point,” he said. “ ‘Failing to plan is planning to fail.’ ”

I smiled. “Yes, I’m just worried that if they find one body, they’ll search nearby and find the other.”

“Maybe the bodies should be the same distance from here to that rock outcrop.” He pointed at some rocks in the distance.

“OK,” I said.

“I’ll go over there, up there.” He pointed. “Need any help?”

“No, I’m fine. How about you?”

“No, I do this all the time,” he said and laughed.

“Well it was nice meeting you. We’ll have to have lunch sometime.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he said. “Oh, we can’t do that. It could link us to one another. Or does that matter? Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

“It’s probably OK,” I said. “By the way, that’s pretty heartless, killing your girlfriend and all.” I winked.

“It’s not as bad as killing your own flesh and blood,” he said and laughed. I laughed too. We were ribbing each other as legal professionals always enjoy doing. It was that good-natured ribbing that I so enjoyed about the legal world.

“You remind me of my dad,” I said. “Can I call you Dad?”

He gave me a surprised look and then laughed. “Hey,” he said. “Watch it. That’s a tort.” He gave me a playful little shove. “That was horrible.”

I was happy that he got the joke so quickly. It made me happy to be with a fellow attorney, to be so connected to another legal professional.

I remember in law school he was constantly saying, “That’s a tort.” He’d say it instead of gesundheit. He’d say it whenever someone was late for class. I think he was trying to teach us that not everything was a tort by saying that everything was a tort. Some reverse psychology thing to get us thinking. Or maybe it was some legal joke that I didn’t get at the time (and still don’t get). Or maybe he was just an idiot. It brought back good memories of Drathe.

“You know, this is the sort of thing the Bar frowns upon, this whole killing thing,” I said. “We could be disbarred.”

“Actually, no,” he said. “I also work for the State Bar, and we don’t have a problem with murder.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, murder is understandable. It makes sense to us. We are really accepting of murder.”

“That makes me feel a lot better. I don’t feel so—I don’t know—misunderstood,” I said.

“We do have a problem if you call a lawyer, say, a dipshit. That’s a big deal. There was this woman, a Drathe graduate, by the way, who was trying to get admitted to the Bar, and she called a lawyer a dipshit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We blocked her. You can’t go around calling other lawyers dipshits. It’s unseemly. It destroys the fabric of society.” He smiled. Then he sighed.

He kicked the corpse. “This is her,” he said. “It’s not my girlfriend. It’s the woman who called the lawyer a dipshit.” He looked troubled. I could tell he wanted to share something. “So, here’s the problem,” he said. “If she couldn’t be admitted to the Bar, the law school’s U.S. News and World Report ranking would be damaged by a lower percentage of graduates admitted to the Bar.”

“Yeah, but it’s just one person,” I said.

“Our real percentage is much lower. I’m out here all the time,” he said. He laughed. “There’s a loophole: If a graduate who isn’t admitted to the Bar dies or goes missing for more than six months, he’s not counted in the percentage anymore.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t pass the bar exam the first time.” I knew how important the U.S. News and World Report ranking was to everyone, but I had no idea the Dean was out killing students who weren’t admitted to the Bar. He wasn’t joking when he was talking about being proactive. I felt some admiration for the hard work he was doing to preserve the school’s ranking in U.S. News and World Report. That was something that benefitted me as a graduate.

“I know. Good thing you passed next time,” he said. “You were on my list. I remember now.”

“I got lucky,” I said. “I figured out how to cheat.”

“Cheating is important,” he said. “Anything to preserve our ranking. If we could just teach our students how to cheat, we wouldn’t have to kill so many of them. I really don’t like killing students,” he said.

“Yeah, I bet,” I said.

“You know, James, we have an opening for an associate dean at the school. Interested?” he said.

I was about to speak when he cut me off. “I’m afraid there would be some killing involved,” he said. “And some heavy lifting. Some travel around the state. But I think you’d be perfect for the position. It’s a difficult position to fill.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

“It’d be the Associate Dean of Collegiate Excellence. You’d be in charge of preserving and—dare I say it—raising our U.S. News and World Report ranking.”

“I’ll think about it.”

We shook hands again. He patted me on the back. I dragged my dad’s corpse into a small gully while Robert buried the law school graduate higher up. Occasionally, he’d wave to me, and I’d wave back.

Robert is a nice guy, I’d think. But then I’d think about how he’d killed a new law school graduate—and probably many more—and was callously burying her body in the desert. But then I’d remember that I’d killed my dad and was callously burying his body in the desert. So then I’d think we were even, and everything was fine.

His duct-tape and garbage-bag effort made him seem so déclassé, however—hardly the work I’d expect from a law school dean. I had noticed some defects in his suit: a frayed edge on the collar, some loose threads and excessive wear on the trousers. A horrible thought passed through my mind: had he purchased his suit at Sears? Maybe back in the 80s? I shuddered. I began to doubt whether I wanted to be associated with him. I’d heard about lawyers like this, the fallen. I’d had fears, nightmares, really, that I’d befriend some fellow attorney and suddenly realize that he was common and uncouth, that maybe he’d gone to a school that hadn’t placed on the U.S. News and World Report ranking or wasn’t ABA approved, that maybe he didn’t work at a top firm. Then I’d wonder how I didn’t see these warning signs earlier and terminate that friendship. That fear made me hypervigilant. As an attorney, you always have to be alert to that, that lower-class types would weasel into your life because you’re an attorney. When you’re an attorney, you’re so much better than the common folk and deserving of the best in life. And people know that and want to glom onto you.

I thought about when I’d had Robert as an instructor at the Drathe School of Law. He had been one of my favorite teachers. But now look at him with his duct tape and garbage bags, frayed collar, loose threads, and Sears suit. I felt revulsion. I wanted nothing more to do with him. There was no way I was going to take that associate dean position. The only way I was able to calm myself was to think about his utility: he was preserving the School of Law’s U.S. News and World Report’s Ranking. I was able to calm down enough to bury my father.

The Photo Book Screw Up of 2010

“They messed it up,” April said. “Mine is for a boy. That’s not right.”

“Mine is for a girl,” Lance said.

Their father, Win, examined the photo books. Then he removed the receipt from the shipping box.

“Why is mine for a boy?” April said. “Why?”

“Hold on,” Win said. He held up his hand and continued to study the receipt. Then he picked up the phone and called the number on the receipt.


“Well, don’t you look at these before they’re made?” Win said on the phone.

“No, it’s all done by a service bureau in East Asia,” the customer service rep, “Franklin,” said on the phone. “They can’t tell the difference between a boy and a girl.”

“In what country can’t they tell the difference between a boy and a girl?”

“Not between a boy and a girl, just between an American boy and an American girl. That’s not their job.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?”

“So you’re not going to do anything about this?”

“There is nothing I can do. You entered the information wrong. You chose the girl’s theme for the boy and the boy’s theme for the girl. You couldn’t tell the difference between a boy and a girl.”

Win slammed down the phone. “Asshole,” he said. “Piece-of-shit asshole.” Both Lance and April left the kitchen and went into the living room. Swearing meant time to leave.

Win spent a long time in the kitchen thinking about what he’d like to drink. He pictured various drinks in his head. Eventually he settled on a screwdriver, which he fixed.

He thought about how he’d ordered copies of the photo book for his parents, his wife’s parents, his sister, his wife’s brother, his aunt and uncle…. He stopped thinking and instead downed his screwdriver. Then he fixed another one.

You married a moron, his wife’s father would think. He wouldn’t say it, but Win would be able to tell that’s what he was thinking. Then if they ever got into a fight, her father would just unload a whole pile of insults and putdowns that he’d been saving over the years. One insult would likely be, Win thought, that Win wasn’t able to order properly.


The family always commemorated humiliating moments with a title. For example, The Jumper Cable Incident or The Draino Debacle. Only recently had they started appending the year onto the incident due to confusion over The Septic Tank Incident, which occurred in 2004, 2005, and 2007. This incident became known as The Photo Book Screw-Up of 2010.


“How could you screw this up?” April said.

“I’m getting tired of you complaining about this,” Win said.

“Are you getting me the right one? Are you getting it fixed?” April said.

“No. We can’t afford it right now.”

“I can’t believe you screwed this up,” April said.

Lance walked into the room from upstairs. “You’re not getting new ones?”

“Just shut up,” Win said. “I’m already goddamn sick of your bitching about this.” He stood.

“Why did you have to screw it up?” Lance said. “Why couldn’t you handle ordering?”

“Both of you upstairs. Now!” April and Lance looked at each other. “Now! Get upstairs now!” Both kids stood but didn’t move. “I’m not joking around.”

Win drank the rest of his screwdriver while his kids ran upstairs. He wanted to throw his glass into the fireplace like they always did in the movies, but, instead, he put it on the coffee table.


Upstairs Win picked out some of April’s clothes and handed them to Lance. “Put these on,” he said. He picked out some of Lance’s clothes and handed them to April. “Put these on.” Neither kid moved. Win yelled and threatened, and Lance and April eventually put on each other’s clothes. Both cried.

“If we can’t make the books right, we’ll make the kids right,” Win said. “OK, now downstairs.” Win made himself another screwdriver while his kids sat on the couch.


Around six, Beth, the mom, arrived home. “What’s going on here?” she said as she looked at her kids who were wearing each other’s clothes.

“Dad got drunk and went crazy,” April said. Her eyes were red from crying.

Then Win entered the room carrying another screwdriver (this time without the orange juice). He set it down on the coffee table. He placed his hands on April’s shoulders. “May I present your son…” he said. April twisted away from his grasp.

He pointed at Lance. “… and your daughter.” Lance leaned his head against the back of the couch.

“What are you doing?” Beth said. “What is this?”

“Now they match their photo books.” He picked up Lance’s photo book and showed it to Beth. “Here’s our daughter’s book.” The book was stereotypically girly: pink, with a bow and a feminine font. Beth took the book and looked through it.

“Dad screwed up the photo books,” Lance said.

“Go change,” Beth said. Lance and April ran upstairs.

“Their dad is a big fuckup,” Win said. “He can’t even handle ordering. He can’t even handle ordering by himself. No wonder no one will hire him. And now everyone in the family knows what a total fuckup he is. If there was ever any doubt. We can all have a big laugh about how pathetic and stupid Win is.”

“It’s not your fault,” Beth said. She was sitting at the computer reviewing the order. “They screwed it up.”

“The guy on the phone said it was my fault,” Win said.

“Not according to this,” Beth said. She pointed at the screen. Win studied the screen. It showed he ordered the right books. He turned to look at Beth.

“Don’t know about the kids, though,” she said. She laughed.

“I don’t think you should be laughing,” Win said. He laughed.

“Then why are you laughing?”

“It’s just I feel so bad for them,” Win said.

“Stop laughing then,” Beth said.

“For once, some screw-up wasn’t my fault. But then I go and screw up trying to deal with it,” Win said.

“It’s a gift.”

“Thanks,” Win said. “Maybe I can draw on this gift in my job hunt.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Poor kids.”

“They’ll be fine, no big deal,” Beth said.

First Day

I arrived at the bus barn at about six a.m. We’d already been practicing our runs in the previous weeks. They said they’d start me when school got out rather than in the morning, so I went home.

My wife was standing in the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said.

She looked worried. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I said. “They just had too many drivers today.”

“Something’s up,” she said. “They’re against you. Just like before.”

“No, you’re just being paranoid,” I said.

She looked at me suspiciously. “I keep thinking they’re against you or something. That they’re coming after you.”

“No, it’s not like that at all,” I said.

“You don’t need to drive school busses. I could go back to work. You could stay at home. Maybe some people should just stay at home. You’re better at home.”

I just looked at her. “I’m fine.”


My first run was a bunch of junior high kids. They did not like me, and I did not like them. Their behavior got worse and worse as we drove away from the school (Dwight D. Eisenhower Middle School).

One kid in back, the tough guy, threw a small football. It hit a girl two rows behind me. I turned on the PA. “Do not throw things on the bus. It is an extreme safety hazard. I’ll let you out right here.”

The tough guy started laughing, which inspired the hoods around him to start banging on the seats. They want me to crash. It’s not the people who run the bus barn who are against me; it’s the students who are against me.

I found myself becoming angrier that these kids were so against me that they wanted me to crash on my first day. I thought about how incredibly stupid I was at their age. I was dumb as dirt. I knew they couldn’t get through the day without doing something stupid and nearly killing themselves.

More sporting equipment flew through the air, but I wasn’t going to take the bait. I just sat there driving and thinking about my hobbies. I particularly enjoyed gardening, computers, and the Internet.

The girl who had been hit by the football was crying and saying, “Why isn’t he doing anything?” I made eye contact with her in the mirror. “Why aren’t you doing anything?” she repeated.

I couldn’t do anything now. Some dumb kid told me to do something. It would look bad if I suddenly did something. The kids would lose any respect they had for me. I should have pulled the bus over and walked down the aisle all tough and scary, but I knew I couldn’t pull it off. They’d just laugh at me. Someone would shove me.

I wish I had some sort of weapon, like a rubber club. That’d scare them. Knock them around a little, shake them up. I read on the Internet that such a thing wouldn’t leave bruises. It’d hurt but would leave no mark. I told myself that wasn’t a productive thought. There would be too many witnesses.

I remember reading about how at the jail downtown, one of the inmates threw feces out the window and it hit someone on the sidewalk down below. That just gave me another reason not to go back there.

A shoe hit the front windshield and ended up in my lap. I was pissed off now. “Give me back my shoe,” a boy said. I was tired of their bull. When a shoe enters the driver’s command and control area, it becomes a monumental safety concern.

“It’s mine, but I didn’t throw it,” the kid said.

“Liar,” another kid said.

I looked at the shoe in my lap. It was pink and had a lot of homemade decorations on it. Lots of floofy, girly stuff.

We were near Mark Twain Elementary School, so I pulled in.

“Everyone off the bus. You’ll need to call your parents to get rides,” I said over the PA. “Your behavior is unacceptable.” I set the parking brake, turned off the ignition, and opened the door.

“That’s not fair. I didn’t do anything,” the football victim said. “They threw a football at me. They hit me.”

“Sorry, district rules,” I said. They weren’t district rules. That’s just what we said.

“Can I have my shoe?” a boy said. He pointed at the pink shoe on the dash. He was a small boy wearing makeup. “I didn’t throw it. I would never throw my shoe. I spent a long time making it. My sister helped me, but I came up with the design.” He showed me the shoe on the other foot. It had a similar design.

“I know you didn’t throw it. It’s OK,” I said. I handed him his shoe. I wanted to pat him on the back, but district rules prevented any sort of physical contact with the students. I nodded. “You’re pretty talented.”

“Thanks,” he said. He took the shoe, put it on, and got off the bus.

The police showed up and “helped out.” They mostly told me I was at fault, that I let things get out of hand. It was the usual cop-control-freak stuff. One cop, Officer Twalksel, gave me tips for maintaining control of a situation. “If it escalates, you have to bring it back down.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. It’s probably easier to maintain control if you have weapons or know chokeholds.

Someone from the bus barn arrived while I was learning about maintaining control. I didn’t know him, but I’d seen him around.

“Hey, they want me to take the bus back,” he said.

“I can do it,” I said.

“No, they told me to.”

“OK. I guess I’m out of a job.” I handed him the keys.

“Sorry,” he said.

I started walking toward my house. It was about a mile.


The people at the bus barn decided to let me go. I told my wife that the kids were working with the people at the bus barn against me. She nodded.

“I guess you can cross school bus driver off your list,” she said.


[April 2008]

The Virus

“And what seems to be the problem, sir?” the technical support person said.

“Well, your virus didn’t install properly,” the man said.

“Well, sir, do you have any anti-virus software?”

“I think so,” the man said.

“You’ll have to disable or uninstall it before our virus will install,” tech support said.

“Oh, duh,” the man said.

“That’s OK, sir. If you’d like, I can stay on the line with you and guide you through uninstalling or disabling your anti-virus software.”

“That’d be great,” the man said.

The technical support person walked the man through disabling his anti-virus software and helped the man install the virus. It was easier than he thought.

“This is my first virus,” the man said. “I was telling my wife that this morning. We’re both pretty excited about it.”

“I can imagine, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, that’s it, thanks.”

“Well, if you’d be so kind as to go online and fill out our support satisfaction survey, it would be a great help to me. I’ll send you a link.”

“Sure, I’ll do that. You provided great support.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” the tech support person said. “Have a nice day.”

“Bye,” the man said. He hung up. “Dad, your computer is all set,” he yelled toward the living room.

“Thanks, Kiddo,” his dad yelled back.

Stop Laughing

Ethan’s parents liked to laugh at him. They would stop by and comment on his life and laugh. Ethan lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in Belle Pointe Apartments near the interstate. His apartment was cluttered, probably a reflection of Ethan’s ongoing depression and social anxiety and the self-hatred that came from dealing with his depression and social anxiety. He wished he could be outgoing and popular like his parents, but he’d rather spend time alone with his thoughts and papers and books.

Continue reading “Stop Laughing”

Kidney Donor

I found my kidney on the kitchen counter. There was also a note. “Jen, I don’t want your fucking kidney,” it read. It was from Lindsey, my on-and-off-again girlfriend who swore far too much.

I immediately picked up the phone and called her. “Take my damn kidney, you stupid moron,” I said. “You need it.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t need it. I don’t want anything from you,” she said.

Continue reading “Kidney Donor”

Body Parts in the Mail

One day, Ian noticed a severed foot in his mailbox. The foot was sitting on his mail. It was sitting on his Chase credit card bill and his Dollar Saver ad. He wasn’t sure what to do with the foot or whom to tell. Because Ian didn’t know what to do, he panicked and carried the foot back to his apartment.

Several people noticed the creepy guy in apartment F-2017 carrying a foot around the parking lot. A woman who lived two doors down from Ian saw him. She had been getting into her car. She wrote the date and time and, “Guy from apartment F-2017 with foot,” in the notebook she carried around in her purse.

Continue reading “Body Parts in the Mail”

Before the Boys of Mr. Vandermast’s Fourth Period Health Class at Robert J. Dole Senior High School: Dr. Chapwick’s Last Talk

Mr. Vandermast stood in front of his fourth period health class. “OK, boys, we now would like to welcome Dr. Chapwick from the university to talk to you about masturbation.” The boys in the class began giggling. “Boys, please.” He held up his hands. “Dr. Chapwick is a world-renowned psychotherapist who has studied human sexuality for over forty years.” He shook Dr. Chapwick’s hand. “Welcome, Dr. Chapwick.”

Continue reading “Before the Boys of Mr. Vandermast’s Fourth Period Health Class at Robert J. Dole Senior High School: Dr. Chapwick’s Last Talk”