Posts Tagged ‘writer’

The Old, Old Story, Conclusion

May 10, 2013

[Note to the reader: There are some language cautions in this installment. If you don’t want to experience a thug using non-PG Anglo-Saxonisms, read no further. Just saying …]

Two weeks later, and it’s been one of those days. It’s almost dark, time to check it in. I’m going up the stairs to my apartment and he’s waiting for me on the landing.

Image“What did you think to see? A reed shaken by the wind?”

“Get lost, pal. I’m not in the mood.”

“Come on, man. Tell me what comes after. I don’t need to know—you do.”

I look at him, and in the lousy light of the stairwell his face has this weird, otherworldly sheen—my own private apparition. I blink and shake my head, and he’s back to normal—not an improvement.

Image

“What is it with you, man? I told you—I don’t do futures. Not for you, not for anybody. You play the hand you get, okay? Just like everybody else. Now get outta here and—”

It was a few seconds before I saw the scared, juiced kid approaching from the side hallway. He was holding his right arm close to his side, but I could still see the dull glint of the small-caliber handgun.

“Don’t want no trouble, man. Just gimme your money.”

The street guy stepped in front of me, facing the kid, then spread his arms out wide, like he wanted to hug him.

“Let not your heart be troubled!”

“Look, this kid’s high, okay?” I said, backing away. “I don’t think you ought to—”

ImageHe keeps on talking to the kid, moving slowly toward him, the kid’s eyes getting bigger and bigger.

“In my father’s house are many mansions.”

“That weird-ass shit out my face, man.” The kid is panting, his hand starting to shake.

“If it weren’t so I would have told you.”

Another step closer. Another.

“I said get the fuck outta my face!”

“… and I go there to prepare a place for you—”

The gun was probably only .22 caliber, but the shot was loud in the hallway. I’m scooting back like a crab, plastered against the wall, and for a second, I think the kid missed.

Image

Then the street guy sort of crumples forward, almost like he’s bowing to an audience—before clattering onto the floor like a bag of cantaloupes.

Somebody down the hall opens a door. “What’s going on out there?” The scared kid bolts down the stairs.

I crawl over to the street guy. He’s still breathing, his hand stuffed into the red fountain springing from just below his sternum.

There are tears in his eyes.

Image

“Forgive him, for he knew not…” Then he sighs and his eyes dull like cooling wax.

The cops come and zip him into a black vinyl bag. I stand on the sidewalk outside my building, watching in the red-and-blue flash and the radio squawk until the Suburban from the county morgue wheels around the corner.

Image

Tomorrow is Saturday … and I don’t know what comes next.

 

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So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License

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The Old, Old Story, Part 2

April 15, 2013

I knew I’d see him again, the same way you know you’re going to be sick at your stomach when you feel that first little question mark in your gut. Sure enough, about a week later, ImageI’m back working the mall, and I swear I can actually feel him approaching; moving in like a cold front from my mind’s northwest horizon. This particular day, he’s got on a pair of dumpster-issue oxfords, and I can hear the soles slapping the pavement as he comes up to my table. He leans on one hand and stares at me with those washed-out blue eyes. “Who do you say that I, the son of man, am?”

“I dunno—Elvis, maybe? Only without sequins.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “You ready to tell me what happens next? I still got your money, right here.” He pinches a fold of his pocket.Image

Now I’m irritated. “Look, pal, stop wasting my time, okay? You’re occupying the same space as a paying customer.” Some of these guys, you don’t stiff-arm them up front, they start treating you like their private candy machine.

He gets this soulful, whipped-beagle look, and I swear to you it was like he felt sorry for me.

“Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem. I would have sheltered you beneath my wings, but you would not.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

ImageHe moves off down the way, but I can feel his eyes on my back. Not threatening… just sorry. Like I’ve missed something I’d later regret.

(To be continued…)

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License