Mobile Castration

The driver of the van takes a corner going a little too fast and the tires squeal on the damp pavement. I clutch the handle above my head and check to make sure my seatbelt is snugly fastened.

“Maybe you should slow down.” I suggest and the guy behind the wheel looks at me with a smug grin.

“Maybe you should shut-up and just concentrate on your notes.” He looks back at the road, swerves out of the way of two little kids crossing at a green light as he takes a quick left. “You wanted this interview, so ask me some questions.”

He is right, of course. I do want this interview, more than anything. Up until only a week ago this man’s existence had been nothing but a myth, a story that was told around water coolers in office buildings, a tall tale spoken of over smoky poker games in dimly lit basements. Sometimes the story was told with grave sincerity, other times as a joke to pass the time.

“Okay.” I say, checking my hand held recorder to make damn sure I charged the battery this morning. I know I did, but I’m one of those obsessive compulsives who always like to double and triple check everything. Holding the device up to my mouth I decide to give a little intro before we start in on the meat of it.

“This is Donald Vasquez of the New York Daily News, conducting an interview with a man who is known by many nicknames but whose true identity has remained a secret since he has been in, uh, business, shall we say…”

The guy chuckles. “I like that.” He says, making an unsignaled lane change, cutting off someone in a red Toyota. The other driver honks and flips the bird but the guy doesn’t notice.

“Some of the names that have been attributed to him are Dr. Newt, Dr. Freedom, Free Willy, The Ballbuster and my personal favorite, the aptly put ‘Castrator’.”

“I’m referred to as ‘Free Willy’?” he asks, smiling, and I nod in return. “I like that.”

“I am with Dr. Newt today to conduct an interview and to go with him on his rounds to get a first hand look at how his business works. He has very kindly consented to this interview-at the request of anonymity of course-so that he can be better understood.”

I turn to him now, clearing my throat.

“How long have you been, um, offering this service to the people of New York?”

“I been doing this for the last fifteen years, give or take. It started out as a favor to a guy I worked with and he was so satisfied that he passed my name along. After a few successful snip jobs I decided I’d start advertising.”

“And how does one go about advertising this kind of service?”

“Oh, ya gotta be real discreet, that’s for sure. Wasn’t easy at first. The wording in my ad was so vague that hardly anyone knew what I was talking about. I had to find just the right combination of words so that men understood but the law didn’t become savvy.”

“And have you ever had any run ins with the law?”

“It’s been close a couple of times. Once the NYPD tried to do a sting operation on me but I ain’t stupid. I can tell a narc from someone who really wants the procedure-I can see it in their eyes, the desperation, the pain. I know when to walk away if I don’t think it’s on the level.”

“But how do you really know? Do you think you’ve just been lucky?”

“Mister,” He says, staring at me for longer than I am comfortable with because he is the one behind the wheel, “I just know. You can’t do this kind of thing for as long as I have without knowing…”

He pulls into a 7/11 and puts the van in park.

“I need some shit and your gonna have to come in with me.” He says simply. “I ain’t letting you out of my sight until this is over.”

“But I’m no threat to you,” I say, a single trickle of sweat running down my forehead even though it is a cool day. “I want this interview, I don’t want to turn you in.”

“I know you want the interview,” He says, nodding, “but I also got a feeling about you. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t exactly trust you.”

“You can trust me,” I say as sincerely as possible, but I can’t help but feel a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. “You checked me out, you know I am who I say I am.”

“Oh, I know, and I seen you on the news, but that don’t mean you ain’t got something on the sly.” He turns off the ignition and takes the keys out. “Now get out. We’ll continue this later.”

* * *

We’re back in the van and on the road. Dr. Newt is sucking on a Tootsie Pop, humming along to a song on the radio. I’m drinking a grape slushee and it is staining my lips and tongue purple.

“Right now we are currently enroute to one of Dr. Newt’s prospective ‘customers’. Can you tell us how you go about getting in touch with your respective clients?”

“Like I told you, I place ads. Nowadays it’s a lot easier because people know I’m out there, that I ain’t a myth. Sometimes I get them by word of mouth and, besides, over the years I’ve gained ears all over the city. Someone knows someone that knows someone that knows me. Got it? I get a call, we plan on a day and a time and then I show up. I got everything I need in here and I can do the procedure in a little under an hour, if there aren’t any complications.”

“Complications?”

“Yeah, you know, the power goes out, their wife comes home, I telecheck their payment and I see it’s gonna bounce…shit like that.”

“And why would anybody want your services?”

He laughs, takes the lollipop out of his mouth and gives me a large grin.

“You tell me,” he says. “Why do you think some son of a bitch wants his nuts cut off?”

I shrug. “Maybe they are depressed? Suicidal?”

“Fuck man,” He guffaws, choking on his spit and starts to cough. “Come on,” He says after he’s gotten himself together. “You can’t be that stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look man, I know it might seem hard for you to imagine, what with those rugged good looks of yours, but some guys get sick of having balls. All those emotions that comes with ‘em. Some have been through horrible divorces, others want to fuck little kids, maybe corn hole their own brother. I am out here so that guys who don’t want to succumb to their worst impulses don’t have to.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“And fucking a little kid ain’t extreme?”

“Well, different strokes for different folks,” I say, trying to make a joke and he turns a jaundiced eye on me, his grizzled face a mask of fury.

“Say what now?” He says and I try and laugh it off.

“I was just kidding, just making a joke! Of course fucking kids is terrible!”

“Damn straight.” He says, turning his gaze back to the road.

“So, are you a real doctor?” I ask, hoping that I’m not diving into another area that will piss him off.

“Used to be, a long time ago. I lost my license after I did this procedure on a known rapist. Was only supposed to give him a vasectomy but I castrated him instead. Thought the fucker deserved it.”

“How did you know he was a rapist?”

“It was my wife he raped.” He says and I don’t quite know what to say to that, can’t honestly think of an intelligent reply. Then he adds: “She was never the same after that, never. Then she died of hepatitis. She got it from that bastard.”

“I’m very sorry-” I start to say but he interrupts me.

“No you’re not, how can you be? You didn’t know her. So shut the fuck up. Next question.”

At once I realize that this man is crude and irritable-like a New York Teamster-so I decide to lighten up a bit. If I keep going for the jugular it might be my balls on the table next…

“So after you lost your license, then what happened?”

“I laid low for a while, did odd jobs here and there to keep the ball rolling. I was really depressed for a while, but then I figured I could be a boon to society. I could help people in a way that the law wasn’t allowing them to.”

“Like Dr. Kevorkian?” I ask before I can stop myself and again his grizzled visage glares at me menacingly.

“That son of a bitch kills people,” He says, glaring at me through squinted eyes. “Are you comparing me with a murderer?”

“No, no, it just slipped out!” I say, knowing that I have gotten off on the wrong foot and wondering if I will ever be able to regain any ground.

“I’m sure that’s what you tell the sluts you bang.” He mutters and I am at a loss for a moment, flustered. He sizes me up again, and something in his gaze makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“So, what…you think what I am doing is wrong?” He asks finally and I see a chance to redeem myself.

“No, well, it isn’t for me to judge, but if someone is willing to pay you to lose their manhood, well, I don’t see why there should be a problem of legality.”

“My opinion exactly.” He says, a tight grin on his face. “Thing is, I’m not doing the procedure in what one could call a ‘surgically sound environment’. I do it in people’s homes. Doctor’s are allowed to make house calls but very rarely are they allowed to perform surgery. That’s where the legal issue comes to play.”

“Besides the fact that castration isn’t a very popular surgery.” I say with a smile, which is met again by a defiant stare.

“You are really pressing your luck, you know that?” He says menacingly and at once I know I’ve crossed the line one too many times. One more and he’ll probably conclude the interview and kick me out of the van.

“Sorry, sorry.” I say but I think mere words will no longer suffice. I will have to make some act of contrition, although for the moment I am stumped as to what that should be. Money? I think hastily. Should I offer him a hundred bucks for the interview?

Pulling out a cell phone, he punches in some numbers and then waits while it rings.

“Hello, Mr. Stanovich? This is the Doctor, calling in regards to your eleven o’clock appointment.” He pauses. “Very well, and how are you today? Great, great. Look, I’m running a little bit behind and won’t be able to be there until just after twelve. Is that going to be a problem? No? Great. I’ll see you then. Oh, and hey, you might want to jerk off a couple more times before I get there. Yeah. Just so you know what you are going to be missing. Call me if you should change your mind. Bye.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it on the dash. “We’re going to make an unplanned stop.” He says and suddenly I feel a flicker of fear in my stomach, can feel my throat tighten.

“Where are we going?” I ask, trying not to broadcast my trepidation but feel as if I am radiating it in waves.

“I gotta run back to the shop,” He says dismissively. “I left a couple things there that I’m going to need.”

“And you just realized this now?”

“Nah, a ways back but I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were interviewing me.” He says this very casually but for some reason I think he is lying.

“Well,” I say, glancing out the window at the scenery rushing by. “I think I’ve gotten everything I need so you can let me out anywhere,” I pause see that we aren’t in the best part of town but don’t care. “In fact here would be just fine.”

“In this neighborhood?” He says, uttering a dry laugh. “These mother fuckers would cut yer nuts off! No way. I couldn’t let that happen to you. My office is just a couple miles away.” He looks at me slyly. “Wouldn’t you like to see my ‘secret lair’? It’s where I keep all my equipment.”

The thought of that is suddenly very tantalizing and for the moment my fears are assuaged. Maybe there is nothing for me to worry about after all.

“Sure,” I say, “If you don’t mind.”

He reaches across me and opens up the glove box, pulls out a dirty blue bandana.

“Yer gonna have to wear this though.” He says. “Over your eyes.”

“Why?”

He blows out a loud raspberry. “Because I can’t have you knowing where my office is, that’s why. Now put it on or I’ll dump you off right here. Interview over.”

I think about this for a moment and conclude that it is worth it.

“Okay. Fine.” I hold out my hand and take it from him, wrapping it around my head.

“Tighter.” He says. “And no peaking.”

“Scouts honor.” I say, tightening the knot. There is a smell coming off the bandana and, given his line of work, I don’t want to give too much thought as to what might have caused it. I’m hoping it’s just an old, musty smell.

We drive in silence for a while and I can feel the van taking a right here, a left there. At last the vehicle stops.

“We’re here, but you keep that thing on. I’ll lead you and once we are inside I’ll tell you when you can take it off.”

“Okay.”

He opens my door and helps me out. Then he leads me for what feels like about twenty yards and I hear the sound of an automatic door. We walk for another few yards and then we wait. I hear the ding of an elevator bell and then we are moving forward, stepping inside. The car ascends what feels like maybe three or four floors and the bell dings again. He leads me for what feels like a good two hundred yards and I hear the clank of keys in a lock. We pass over the threshold and after a few feet he stops me. He pushes me backward and I fall butt first into a chair.

“I’m gonna turn on the lights, just give me a second. You sit right there and keep that thing on.”

I respond by nodding and wait patiently. I can smell surgical alcohol and other chemical smells, like ammonia. The scent of bleach seems to undercut everything. I can hear the hiss of air and figure that it is the ventilation system.

“You are the first person to ever to set foot in here, you know that?” His voice says from directly behind me and for some reason a prickle of fear returns to me.

“No, I had no idea.” I say. “Can I take off the bandana now?”

“Just a second,” He says, and I hear the soft tinkle of glass bottles slightly striking one another. Another smell comes to me, but I can’t place it. “Okay,” He says at once. “You can take the blindfold off.”

I pull it off of my face and as I do I see him crouched right in front of me, holding a white cloth in his hand.

“Nighty-night.” He says, mashing the cloth over my mouth and nose and seconds later all goes black.

* * *

I wake up feeling groggy, my head pounding like I have one hell of a hangover. For a moment I wonder where I am but then I feel that my arms and legs are restrained and I see the large hulking form of the doctor looming in my peripheral vision. Raising my head as high as I can, I see that I am strapped to a surgical table.

“Hey!” I cry. “What the hell is going on?”

“Well, you wanted a first hand account of what I do,” He says, smiling a smile that instantly puts my hair on edge. “And what better way than to see it for yourself…on yourself.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal!” I shout as he turns toward me, his hands encased in surgical gloves, his body covered by a light green gown. Swinging my head wildly to one side, I see a tray of surgical instruments. Turning my head to the other side I see what must be an anesthetic machine. “You can’t do this to me! I’ll sue you so fast your fucking head is going to spin!”

“No,” He says, adjusting a switch on the anesthetic machine. “I don’t think you are going to do that. You can’t sue someone that you can’t find.”

“I found you to do this interview,” I sputter, fear and rage almost choking me. “What makes you think I can’t find you again?”

“Well,” He says, a sly grin spreading over his face. “What you don’t know-can’t know-is that I am retiring. Getting out of the business.”

“What?”

“I’ve made my money, invested it well.” He says, picking up a surgical mask with a gloved hand and placing the elastic string over one of his ears. “I’m getting the hell out of here, moving on to someplace nice and warm. This is going to be my last procedure. You don’t think I would have agreed to this interview otherwise, do you?”

I am at a loss for words. My mouth gapes open like an idiot.

“The thing is, you did find me. The police have come close to finding me. I have to know when to cut and run, so to speak…the time has drawn nigh.”

“But…but, why are you doing this to me?” I choke through a wet sob, for I can’t help it, I am starting to cry.

His eyes study me for a long time and for the first time I see how cold they are, like chips of ice. I don’t know how I could have missed that. I also notice that his diction has improved, that he is no longer talking like a New York Fireman. I realize at once that he was putting on an act for me, something to keep me off guard, to keep me from knowing how bitterly intelligent and calculating he really is.

“You are a…statement…I am making. I am choosing to make an example of you.” He reaches up and secures the mask over his face, the band snugged firmly over both ears.

“You’re going to cut my fucking balls off?!” I howl, the dread inside of me so mammoth it eclipses everything. I simply can’t imagine how I could possibly live without them…if I would even want to live without them.

“That’s the idea, yes.” He says, reaching for the anesthetic mask.

“You fucking son of a bitch!”

“Oh, come now. It isn’t like I am going to kill you. I’m just going to remove something from you that you don’t need anymore. Simple as that.”

“I think it’s up to me to decide what I need and don’t need!” I wail, tears streaming down my face.

“No,” He answers tersely, his voice quiet and sinister. “You lost the ability to choose for yourself since the day you wrote that article. Ever since than I owned you. It’s only been a matter of time.”

“Article?” I stammer, not knowing what he is talking about. “What article?”

“You know, I didn’t expect you to remember. Why should you? You’re a big shot New York Times reporter that handles hundreds of stories a year, thousands in a lifetime. How could you possibly be expected to remember each and every one?”

“Wh-wh-what was the story?” I ask, apprehension filling my veins like so much liquid steel. He is correct. I can’t remember even half of the stories I’ve written, only the ones that earned me praise from my editor and fellow writers.

“The one you wrote about the rapist that killed my wife, after I castrated him.”

“I never wrote any story about that guy…” I start when suddenly realization dawns on me and at once I know that there is no talking myself out of this, there is no turning back. He has me and I am fucked. The last fucking I will ever get in this lifetime.

“Ah, I see there is a slight glimmer of a brain in that thick head of yours.” He chuckles with evil mirth. “You remember exactly what you said, huh? Do you remember word for word what you wrote?”

Sensical thought is quickly leaving me as a jumble of words and images fills my overworked mind. I recall that my story made the front page under a banner headline that was large and lurid.

“ ‘Extreme Justice Exacted By Crazed Doctor On Alleged Rapist’.” He says and at last I do remember. I remember it as if it were yesterday. “You criticized me for what I did to that fucking scum bag, making light, in my opinion, of what happened to my wife.” And he leans close to me, his face only a few inches from mine. I can feel his breath through the mask, blowing warm and sour in my face. “And then she died.”

“I’m sorry,” I moan, a large, tearing sob ripping from me like a tidal force. “I don’t know what I was thinking…I never meant to…to…to…”

“To degrade her like that? To trivialize her life like that? Go ahead man, spit it out! It was as if you were condemning me for penalizing a monster, a fucking perverted creep. You made it sound as if I was the one who should be punished!”

“I…I…never meant…meant to…” My breathing is becoming shallow due to my increased fear. I worry at once that I am going to hyperventilate.

“You never meant shit.” He spits with contempt, his eyes filled with scorn. “I swore from that day on that I was going to get you, was going to make you pay for how you made light of my wife. Well…now I got you.”

My vision is getting hazy because my heart is beating so fast. It seems as if it is beating faster to keep up with the increased speed of my breathing. Tears are clogging my eyes and I feel a thick glob of snot sliding down my throat and catching on my Adam’s apple.

“Please…” I mutter but I know it is an ineffectual waste of breath. I suddenly wonder when the last time was that I made love…shit, even jerked-off for that matter. Whenever that was, it was my last time.

He places the anesthetic mask over my face and I am so weary from fear-induced stress that my attempts to shake my head are futile at best. The gas smells faintly musky, the vapors reaching deep inside of my head to take me out of all this. And before I black out, the last thing I hear him say is:
“Get ready to join the Vienna Boy’s Choir you son of a bitch…”