The Ice Man Part One by Gary Beck

Christopher Herter guessed it was a typical early December lunchtime crowd at the Bryant Park ice skating rink, mostly tourists, shoppers and the occasional nearby office escapee. He waited with the others behind the rail for the Zamboni to complete its last circuit and for the next session to begin. He cursed under his breath in disgust, still fuming at recently being banned from the Rockefeller Center Rink, for what they called offensive behavior. In a scene of mortifying humiliation, the manager had announced over the public address system that the ushers were to alert him immediately if Chris ever reappeared. The manager also blared that he would have Chris banned from the Wollman rink in Central Park and other rinks in the city. All the regulars watched avidly as the police escorted him out, which insured that they wouldn't be inviting him to their parties anymore. This was particularly galling, since it meant the end of free meals and cut off a social setting where he sometimes collected an unwary woman, a newcomer to skating circles, unused to encountering an extremely cunning sexual predator, who could be deceptively charming.

With his constant attitude of never being in the wrong, Chris refused to admit to himself that he was to blame for the incident that had resulted in his banishment. After all, how was he supposed to know the girl was only thirteen? She looked like she was at least eighteen or nineteen. When she told him she was a college student he had no reason to doubt her. It had started as it always did. He was displaying himself in the center of the rink, doing jumps and spins, attracting attention to his verve and skill. He was in his early thirties, a bit over six feet, with dark curly hair and dark eyes, set off by his pale skin. His taut, muscular body was outlined in a tight, form-fitting white turtleneck and snug black pants. He peripherally observed the girl admiring him and after briefly assessing the other skaters, he selected her as the optimum choice of the day.

He prepared her with his usual thoroughness. First he verified that she was definitely interested, then he made sure she was watching when he executed a particularly dynamic move. After several brief eye exchanges, he flashed a low-medium wattage smile that caught her attention and provoked a smile in response. He skated to her and the rest was a matter of technique. "My name's Chris. What's yours?" "Lottie." "That's a nice name. I never heard of it before." "I was named for a German opera singer," she replied nervously. He was used to that. She was young, lush and ripe for the picking. He confidently put his arm around her waist and said: "Let's skate." As they glided around the oval he was just beginning to explore her body when someone abruptly yanked his arm, pulling him off balance. He started to turn and swing at the intruder, but confronted a big, red faced, angry older man, who yelled loudly: "Take your filthy hands off my daughter." The rest was inevitable.

So here he was, exiled from the land of milk and honey, reduced to scavenging in a lesser arena that in the three days he had been going there had been completely unproductive, adding to his feelings of disgrace and frustration. He doubted that the manager at the Rockefeller Center rink could actually get him banned from other rinks, but that didn't make him feel any better. His appetites, normally kept under rigid control until he could exercise them, were becoming increasingly urgent. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt women, he just needed the thrill of their fear and pain for his own arousal and fulfillment. So he indulged in rough sex. So he gave them a few scrapes and bruises. So what? He didn't do any real damage and he provided a unique learning experience. He only used them once and never bothered them again, so no lasting harm was done. He even took perverse pride in thinking they would never forget him.

Aah. He rolled the bitter pill of scorn under his tongue and half-heartedly scanned the skaters as they made their way onto the ice. Whoa. His eyes clicked like a raptor on a young woman who stumbled out of the gate and desperately clung to the railing, as she tried to make her feet do what they were reluctant to do. He looked her over closely. She was short, slightly plump, but curved in the right places, with blonde hair and a roseate complexion. She looked corn fed, straight out of the farm and susceptible to the nice guy trying to be helpful act. He watched her hobble around the rink twice before he concluded that she was alone, then begrudgingly decided that there were no other candidates and selected a reassuring, non-threatening approach.

He timed his arrival just as she stumbled, easily accomplished since that was all she was doing. "Hold on there, miss. I've got you," and he carefully took her arm, steadying her. He used a low-wattage, sincere smile, meant to generate trust. "With just a little help you'll be zipping around the ice easily." She blushed and said with a laugh: "I'm afraid not. My feet slip rather than zip on ice," and she giggled at her attempt at wit. "I wasn't doing much better than you a few weeks ago," he offered. "Then this nice older lady helped me around the rink and gave me some pointers. Now I'm really enjoying the ice." He gave her his most sincere, I am a trustworthy fellow look and urged gently: "Why don't you give it a try?" "I don't want to bother you." "It's no bother. It's my way of repaying a kindness." He extended his arm and she slowly took it. "Now stop whenever I become a burden," she insisted. "Don't worry about it. Just enjoy yourself and learn to skate."

Chris assisted her courteously, making sure that he didn't reveal any appearance other than the skating Samaritan. They made their way around the rink slowly and she gradually relaxed and actually began to skate. "I don't believe it," she gushed. "I'm really skating." He gave her another low-wattage, manly forthright smile. "You're not quite ready to do a figure eight yet, but with a few small adjustments you could skate by yourself and decide if you like it. Would you like me to help you?" "Oh, yes. If it's not too much trouble. I don't want you to give up your skating time." "There's plenty of time for me to skate and in just a few minutes you'll be off on your own." "You're very nice. Thank you."

He showed her how to control her balance and movements, handling her very respectfully and after a few minutes she stopped worrying abut falling or looking foolish. He quickly caught and supported her when she stumbled, making sure he didn't touch her in any way that might be considered intrusive. And lo and behold, in just a short time she was skating on her own. Her eyes shone and her face was flushed with excitement. "This is wonderful. You're a great teacher." "Not really," he replied, projecting modesty. "You're a good athlete. I just helped a little." "Yeah. Right. You don't know how clumsy I am." This time he offered a medium-wattage smile, designed to make her realize how attractive he was. "I think with a bit more self-confidence and some practice you could do a lot of things that you were afraid to try." He injected a small hint of suggestiveness. "You look like a very capable young woman." She flushed and didn't respond, but he knew she got the message.

A pang of annoyance stabbed through him, part from wanting to possess her, part from resentment that she was just an ordinary country mouse, not scoring very high on the desirable scale, and bitterest thought of all; right now she was the best he could do. He masked all signs of violent emotion that if perceived would send her scurrying for safety. He watchfully escorted her several times around the oval, noting the rapid improvement in her ability to skate freely. She gave him frequent looks of 'how am I doing?', seeking approval from the handsome stranger who had unexpectedly befriended her. She was really beginning to have fun, when a p.a. announcement said: "In a salute to the past, the next session will be for couples only. The regular session will resume in ten minutes. Thank you."

Skaters began to make their way off the ice and the girl turned to Chris with a pouty look. "Darn. I was just starting to do well. I'll probably forget everything by the time I get on the ice again." Chris shook his head and smiled at her sympathetically. "You won't forget. You're doing fine. A lot of guys would be glad to skate couples with you." He coldly watched her gather her courage, then she asked shyly: "Would you?" She was so pathetically easy that he almost said no, but a quick survey of the rink convinced him that there were no better prospects. The tension he was so scrupulously concealing reminded him that he needed to vent his built-up frustrations, and at the moment she was probably the best that an exile from Rockefeller Center could find.

To be continued...

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks and 3 more accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions (Winter Goose Publishing). Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Resonance (Dreaming Big Publications). His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) and Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing). Call to Valor will be published by Gnome on Pigs Productions and Acts of Defiance will be published by Dreaming Big Publications. His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City. www.garycbeck.com www.facebook.com/AuthorGaryBeck

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