John Locke - Box

Youve got an incredibly stressful job, Pigface said. But that doesnt give you the right to engage in destructive, anti-social behavior.

Pigface, my psychiatrist, knows about my gambling. Knows Ive broken into peoples homes and assumed their identities while they were on vacation. Knows Ive robbed wealthy donors while attending their parties. Knows about the random hookers, strippers, and lap dancers Ive dated.

But she doesnt know about the patients Ive killed.

Not my own patients, of course. Theyre more innocent than a virgins sigh.

I kill other doctors patients.

Not randomly, just those who treated me badly in the past. Maybe this one stole my girlfriend in college, or made fun of me in junior high. Maybe that one cheated on me or ripped me off. Years later they enter my hospital for a routine procedure. They dont remember me, but shortly after I visit their room, they take a horrible turn for the worse.

They may not die, but theyll suffer.

Just as they made me suffer.

Pigface doesnt know about the patients Ive killed, but trust me, she wouldnt approve.

This is as good a time as any to introduce myself.

Im Dr. Gideon Box, the top Cardiothoracic pediatric surgeon in the world. A fancy way of saying I fix kids for a living.

Im extremely good at my job, but in real life I have issues.

I dont get along with people. Im antisocial. I dont mix well. Beyond all that, Ive had bad luck with women.

My entire life.

I live alone.

Big surprise, right?

So anyway, Pigface said, Join an online dating service. Pick one that requires you to fill out a detailed profile, and be honest. Let the experts find suitable matches for you.

She told me to seek women from small towns. Said theyd possess basic core values, be less shallow and self-centered than the women Ive tried to date in Manhattan. Told me to take a week off and visit these women. Told me to be positive, keep an open mind.

Whats the worst that can happen? she said.

So I joined a dating website, spent two weeks narrowing down the candidates, and eventually settled on three small-town Kentucky women: Faith Hemphill, Zander Evans, and Renee Williams. These three seemed to possess the qualities Pigface recommended, as well as the one quality I seek in a woman: excessive horniness.

You think excessive horniness shouldnt be a factor? Does the mere suggestion give you the impression Im thoughtless, shallow, insensitive, selfish?

I fix kids for a living.

Broken kids.

Kids with congenital heart defects so severe, no other surgeon in the world would agree to operate on them. Kids so ill their own parents have given up all hope for their survival!

These are the kids they send me.

You think Im selfish?

I give them everything.

Forty-nine hopeless cases have entered my operating room with zero chance of leaving alive. How many survived?

All of them.

So Im good at what I do.

But like I said, I have issues.

I cheat death time and again, but not without substantial cost. Death takes a toll on me. On my life.

Death owns my soul.

Its not what you think.

I havent made a pact with the devil, or anything like that. Its just that I cant stand being me. Cant stand the stress. Cant handle the pressure. Wish someone else could do these operations.

But theres no one.

So four days ago I set out to meet these three women, starting with Faith Hemphill, who lives in Ralston, Kentucky. I flew to Nashville, rented a car, got within two hours of Ralston

And met a young waitress named Trudy Lake.

Trudy Lake.

Im Trudy Lake. Folks here in Clayton think Im wild.

Theyre right.

I cant help it. Im eighteen, stuck in this raggedy-ass, dirt-poor country town, bored half to death.

I waitress here at Alice Ts, a teeth-optional greasy spoon located two blocks from Who Gives a Shit, Kentucky. Ninety-nine nights out of a hundred I serve shirtless rednecks in coveralls who smell like whatever they been up to all afternoon. Mostly they come here with fellow workers or drinkin buddies, in which case theyre a back-slappin, nasty-mouthed bunch who take turns tryin to see who can fluster me most.

It dont work.

I aint been flustered by man talk since I was fifteen, cause Ive heard it all. These inbred snuff-abusers are mostly all talk, though some are mean as snakes. And them that are, need to be watched out for, since they been known to lurk in the shadows after closin time, hopin to grab a waitress or two.

Just last week, Carrie Miller survived an attack with no worse damage than ripped clothes and sore boobs, but Tootie Green werent so lucky. Two locals are currently servin six to ten at Eddy State for puttin her in a coma last year. Evelyn Sawyer claims shes been raped four times, but I got my doubts, since the subject only comes up whenever she checks into the abortion clinic for what she calls a tummy tuck.

Evelyns cosmetic procedures aside, theres often rude behavior to be found outdoors at night. Thats why Big Ed, owner of Alice Ts, routinely tells the women to holler out if somethin aint right when headin to their cars.

Case in point, last April, Kennon Carlson was gettin severely crotch bit when Big Ed heard her wailin out back and laid wood to Gus Wilsons head to the point where Gus walks funny and drools uncontrollably, though he proudly wears the bracelet he made from Kennons snatch hair he picked from his teeth. Durin argument season, Big Ed points to Guss bracelet as proof Kennon aint a natural redhead.

Sometimes the menfolk show up with their wives and kids in tow. Mostly these wives regard me with mistrust, like maybe they think Im gonna steal their warts and mustaches or somethin. While some of the kids are cute in an Easter Island statue sort of way, an outsized number of them walk around town with a mutant, Children of the Corn look about them.

What Im really sayin, I dont want to wind up like the people I wait on.

Im still livin in the house I grew up in. A house so sorry you can fling a cat through any wall without touchin wood.

I want out. Want to get the hell out of town before the next bad thing happens, which is why Im payin middlin attention to the nicely-dressed doctor at table sixteen on the far side of the room. Im allowin him to flirt with me, though hes not much good at it.

Partly its his age, which makes him automatically sound lame when he talks.

How old is he? Forty, at least. Maybe more.

Reason I know hes a doctor, its the first thing he said when I brought the menu.

I said, Hi, Im Trudy. Ill be your waitress tonight, if thats all right with you.

He said, Hello, Trudy. Im Dr. Gideon Box, from New York City.

Really? I said. What kind of doctor are you?

Im a world-famous cardiothoracic surgeon, he said, proud as punch.

I guess you got Doc Blanchard beat six ways to Sunday, I said.

Is that your general practitioner?

Yeah, but his degree is in veterinary medicine.

You cant be serious, he said.

I asked, Do you have business at the county hospital, or you just passin through?

He smiled a goofy grin and said, That sort of depends on you.

Me?

I notice youre not wearing a wedding ring.

I said, Neither are you.

Then he looked me up and down and said, Ive met five women prettier than you.

Like I said, hes not very smooth. But I took it as a compliment since his eyes seemed to find a home in my boobs.

We spoke some words durin the drink order, and durin the drink bringin, and the food order, the food bringin, and now hes stallin, tryin to see if his charms workin on me.

I cant decide if hes interested in a relationship, or just lookin to get laid and move along.