So I have this horrible thing that happens when I get in bed sometimes. It's not quite insomnia, but feeds from the same trough. It's not really depression, but went to high school with sadness' sadistic father. It's bizarre, yet I know plenty who join me in my plague: namely, the investigation, research, dissemination and internalization of serial killer and dictator stories.
Now, perhaps more strangely, it's the oratory and auditory of documents and speeches that really gets to me rather than the actual acts of violence. Watch a Hitler speech. Watch the video of Saddam being hanged. The stories around these singular events are well known to me - ingrained in my skin almost - yet the single sight of them in full grotesque glory is more than enough to take me past the 6am mark. It's hard to stop the rattling once it starts.
There's been at least six nights in my life where the Son of Sam has taken over my world. Yes, I understand he was caught. Yes, I understand he's a born again Christian and a "good dude" these days. Yes, I also heard that he's writing a book called The Son Of Hope or something like that. But more than his murders or anything he's doing now, it's those notes he sent to the police and Jimmy Breslin. Here's part of the Breslin one:
Hello from the gutters of N.Y.C. which are filled with dog manure, vomit, stale wine, urine and blood. Hello from the sewers of N.Y.C. which swallow up these delicacies when they are washed away by the sweeper trucks. Hello from the cracks in the sidewalks of N.Y.C. and from the ants that dwell in these cracks and feed in the dried blood of the dead that has settled into the cracks. J.B., I'm just dropping you a line to let you know that I appreciate your interest in those recent and horrendous .44 killings. I also want to tell you that I read your column daily and I find it quite informative. Tell me Jim, what will you have for July twenty-ninth? You can forget about me if you like because I don't care for publicity. However you must not forget Donna Lauria and you cannot let the people forget her either. She was a very, very sweet girl but Sam's a thirsty lad and he won't let me stop killing until he gets his fill of blood. Mr. Breslin, sir, don't think that because you haven't heard from me for a while that I went to sleep. No, rather, I am still here.This text functions as a primordial utterance throughout my after hours brain. "I am still here" transports Berkowitz in my bedroom (or better yet, on my fire escape... slowly climbing up). He's actually everywhere. Who am I kidding? I'm generally a nerves-of-steel sort of guy, but the blood thirst above can easily destroy my present, making me flinch every moment the radiator kicks in.
