Windows

“You were saying about the windows…”

“Right, the fucking windows. So, this place is nice, right? I had some time to fuck around and I’m playing with all the toys. Fridge is NASA certified and shit, feel me? I’m looking around. Not like I’m gonna boost anything. I’m not that dumb. Just waiting. But, you know, I didn’t know shit that nice existed. Then I saw the remote for the windows. Well, I didn’t know what it was at first, but I hit this button and all these walls start sliding and there’re windows behind ‘em. And the windows you could see, they’re all sliding open and shut. Red button covers them all in a sheet of steel. Fucking James Bond shit, you know?”

“For reals? So, what did you do?”

“Nothing to do. He showed up. I’m sitting there with the fool and I even said, ‘you got this nice fucking house and my dishwasher’s broken, bitch.’ He looks at me like I’m crazy. He didn’t get it you know?”

“They rarely do, brother.”

“Yeah, true. This guy, though. I don’t know, man. I like it when they’re too scared to talk. This guy was used-car salesman through and through, dig? Like trying to sell his life to me. I got a wife and kids, man. Yeah, that’s nice, me too. You don’t have to do this! Of course I have to fucking do it, it’s my job, I got a family to feed.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

“Right, so he’s blubbering and shit. Offers me money. I tell him if he’d paid The Boss in the first place, none of this is happening, right? So, I know he’s buying time. For what, who the fuck knows? Me, I’d just want it done, you know?”

“I feel ya. There’s some that just can’t accept that it’s already done if you’re there, dig? Like, the time for negotiation is long past.”

“Exactly, he’s trying to tell me all this shit. And I’m like ‘I have a life too, you fucking dick. I’m trying to finish this bit and get home. So, shut the fuck up.’ He didn’t, so I busted him good. Fucker’s out cold. Real cold. Then I get distracted by all the Star Trek shit again. Finally, I look at the clock and I’m like, ‘Shit! Jenny’s dance recital! I gotta get this shit done so I can clue the boss and get cleaned up.”

“And?”

“Well, I told you. I killed the fool and left. Made it in plenty of time. You should have seen it, man.”

“I bet, how old’s that little girl now?”

“Seven. She’s been doing the dancing thing for like a year and a half now. She’s good. I don’t know shit about dancing, but all the other kids looked like fucking retards, feel me? At least she looked like she’d paid some attention.”

“That’s beautiful, brother.”

“What about you? How’s your shoulder?”

“Healing. Wish I could stop thinking about it. Feel like a chump, you know?”

“Hell, you didn’t know she had anything - ”

“Yeah, but why did I even get close enough? That’s what bugs me. I’m just gonna stop letting ‘em talk, period. ‘Cause this chick was all sweetness and light and wait til my husband gets home, we'll sort this, would you like a drink? So, I figure, what the fuck? She goes and makes a drink, on the rocks, and after she hands it to me, she stabs me with the fucking ice pick. Real nice one. Old timey. Probably from Restoration Hardware or something. Bitch is too good for an ice cube tray, right?”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, so she sinks that shit into my shoulder and then dangles. Like, what the fuck I’m gonna do now? You could have at least stabbed me in the throat. This is gonna be a bitch of a broken wing. I’m sitting there with an ice pick in my shoulder and she’s got her mouth covered like one of those pervy Japanese chicks in those Chinatown rags. Oh no! What did I do? Hee hee hee. You know? She doesn’t even try and hit me or anything. Just stands there staring at the ice pick. Oh, and you’re not gonna believe what she says next…”

“What?”

“She looks right at me like she’s buying drapes or some shit and she’s goes, ‘you can rape me, but please don’t kill me!’”

“No!”

“No shit, man. Said it just like that. Like she’s giving me the consolation prize.”

“Ha! What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘Ma’am, you flatter yourself. Plus, I’m not a rapist.’ Then I shot her.”

“What about the husband?”

“He comes in and I’m sitting waiting for him next to his dead wife. He starts to go mental, and I stand up and slap the everloving shit out of him. Sounded like a fucking hand grenade. So, he mums up. You can tell he’s looking for an out. Some kind of excuse. Something. So, I make it real clear. You owe The Boss money. Your wife is…excuse me…was a fucking retard. You got the money? He does that wide mouth thing like somehow something is gonna come out that will turn me back into the fucking boy scout I am, right? So, I capped him. Bailed. Felt a little bad about the bitch. She wasn’t a necessary hit until she volunteered, you feel me?”

“Fuck yeah, collateral damage. I always want to explain it, but they get so emotional. Your husband is a lying prick and he owes everything you own to my boss because he’s a sick fuck who doesn’t like to pay for his sick fuck hobbies. Got nothing to do with you. Go sit in the bedroom. Wait five minutes after you hear the shot, and then call the police. But they never do the smart thing. Never. How long we been doing this, twenty years? Anyone ever listen to fucking reason?”

“Naw, they don’t get it, man. They’re convinced they’re above that shit. They’re like little kids. Hit off the tee. Just fucking hit off the tee until you get the feel for it. But they want to jump right in. Gonna hit that long ball, first try. They got all the answers. They’re gonna save themselves and me in the process, you know?”

“For reals. We need resumes. No joke. No name. Just a list of people we’ve hit and why. References, you know. Like, shut the fuck up, ‘cause this is what I do. End of story. The proof is in the goddamned pudding. I’m not some meth-head out to steal your DVD player. The Boss said you die, so you die. Shit, I got a mortgage to think about.”

“Ha! Right. But they’re convinced they’re gonna be the ones you let off. Like it wouldn’t end your fucking career, even if you wanted to. I won’t lie, sometimes I feel like The Boss takes it too far. I get it. No loose ends. Erase the drama. But some of those idiots deserve less...they don't need to die. That’s my personal feeling. But whatever. They made the bed. We just tuck ‘em in, yeah?”

“Yep, you got that right. You fuck a dog, you wake up with fleas. People gotta understand that.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that they’ll never understand. And they’ll always feel like the victim whether it was on them or not. It’s all fucking rosey until the piper comes collecting.”

“Yeah, fucking truth. They got nice stereos and shit though, most of ‘em. You gotta give ‘em that. Should of sold some of that shit and handed over the cash, yeah?”

“That’s true. Sometimes I wonder who’s going to end up with that bomb stereo. What’s gonna happen when I’m gone? Who gets the Benz and the watch collection?”

“You ever go back and check things out?”

“Naw. Thought about it. But there’s never any going back, is there? For anybody.”

“Nope. You just keep rolling.”

The men drank from the pint bottle, blowing smoke out of the window crack. Down by the docks it was quiet. They were big men, but they looked like anyone else. Two guys sitting in a car, talking about work.

“I gotta get home, man. Today’s my day for bringing snacks to pre-school. I gotta figure out what the fuck I’m bringing.”

“Yogurt, man. Mine love yogurt.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll get a gang of fruit, too. Some of those fucking roll-up things. You want me to drive you back?”

“Naw, thanks. Car’s right over there.”

“Ok, brother. Talk soon.”

The sound of two big Hemi engines startled the herons on the waterfront. They flapped gloomily in the thin light. They swept their wings and moved twenty or so feet down the bank. Hunting. Surviving. They knew the score. Keep moving. Don’t stay in once place for too long. Be more cautious than you think you need to be. That’s how you stay alive.

Headphones

He dove into the darkness, tethered by wires from his headphones. They were old and huge and looked like they should be atop a crew cut, directing airplanes. They blocked out everything. Fast drum beats drilled into his skull. Carefully, he dipped a safety pin in ink and continued the permanent doodle he was adding to his arm.

Jake had never been poor. He felt poor, but he wasn't. Poor is lack of potable water. Poor is digging through dumpsters. Rich made enough money to live. When he wasn't inside the valet booth, he was inside his headphones, and he was happy.

The other valets wore short sleeved shirts in the tropical heat. Jake wore a long sleeve shirt to hide the scribbling and notes and reminders he had spent years giving himself. The scars and the tattoos wouldn't fly at work.

Being a valet was cool. Jake liked it. He had found some interesting things in cars he parked. Money. A watch. Necklaces and earrings. He took them. All the valets did. No one could ever prove anything and his manager didn't care. He knew he'd be fired eventually. The only thing he ever found and didn't take was an envelope.

It was one of those big envelopes that people call "vanilla" when talking to people who are too embarrassed to correct them. Inside, there was a .38 and a bag of white powder. Jake had thought for a second, and then he'd put everything back the way he'd found it. Heart in his throat. That night he had listened to The Velvet Underground and wondered who was waiting for their man. And he smiled when he thought how pissed they would have been if he'd taken the stuff.

The room was still dark, but Rich was stoned and the cherry on the end of his blunt was fire orange. He stared at it and waved it lightly, writing his name like he had done with a thousand sparklers. In his former life.

On the cusp of sleep (and between songs), Jake heard a pounding on his apartment door. He'd been waiting for it. He smiled and didn't move. They could break the door in. He thumbed his phone and put on an old GBH album. He turned up the volume.

When the cops splintered into his apartment, knocking the door to pieces, Jake was still in his room, lost in the music. The first cop he saw was holding a flashlight and his gun. Jake laughed. The cop was yelling, but he couldn't hear a word he said. He tried to picture the other cops in the living room, the blood on the walls. The cop with the flashlight was joined by two more officers. Jake smiled at their purple faces.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he knew. In a flash, he grabbed the phone and pointed it through the murky light and lingering pot smoke. The first bullet took half his face. The rest were for good measure, he supposed. He closed his eyes and listened to the music and waited to die. It did not take long.

Excerpt from 'Joe Café'

The sun was not up, but there was a glow through the morning mist.  It was already getting warm.  Michael ran his thumb up the cork handle of the fly rod.  It was an absentminded gesture.  Like stroking the stubble on one’s chin.  It was comforting and it was sensual.  He pulled out line and heard the ripping sound of the reel.  Without really thinking about it, he cast back and let the fly drop right into the center of a dark, quiet hole.  He watched it sit on the water.  The line lay perfectly, almost invisible.

            The state cops had given up on the letter…the whole thing.  Not a decent print.  Nothing.  Michael knew he had to give up, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was his fault.  His job to guard the town.  His job to keep innocent friends from becoming targets and then bloody mannequins.  He saw that his fly was sinking and did a few dry casts before putting it six inches from where it had been.  He tried to stop his mind, but couldn’t.  He pulled out the flask and downed it in one gulp.  Recast.  

            Suddenly he was back in time.  Something he hadn’t thought about in years.  There was a girl in his class named Anna.  They were sixteen.  She had a hopeless and obvious crush on Michael.  She had indentations in the sides of her head and she was slow.  That’s what they called it then: slow.  He was always nice to her.  He knew it encouraged the crush, but she had enough kids throwing shit at her.  She was the butt of enough jokes.

            It was a Friday afternoon.  He was passing the gym and he heard laughing.  He looked inside and saw two kids he didn’t know very well…one was a new student, a pudgy, shifty kid.  They were standing on either side of her.  They were throwing her shirt over her head and she was jumping for it and laughing.  She was not wearing a bra.  Her breasts were large and Michael was ashamed to be looking.  That was the first thought, but it was followed almost instantaneously by blinding rage.  One of them reached out and savagely grabbed a bouncing tit.  Anna screamed, and then he was walking.  If you could call it walking.  It wasn’t a run, but it was like the earth was pushing his feet forward.  He was momentum.  He covered the distance quickly and his rage grew with every step. 

            The two boys turned at the last second.  Their eyes were wide and their expressions confused.  Michael’s first punch destroyed the bigger one’s nose.  His second punch caught the wiry one in the throat and he went down making mud noises.  Michael kicked and kicked.  Things began to get blurry.  He was crying.  Then her hand was on his.

            “It’s Ok, Michael.”

            He panted.  Blinked.  Couldn’t talk.

            “Michael.  We were just playing.  Don’t be mad, Michael.”

            He looked at her innocent face.  Pink cheeks and childish smile.  He looked at the boys on the floor.  He realized they were hurt badly and recoiled in shock.  He wondered what he should do.  He knew they would never tell.  He shuddered.  He looked down at them squirming in their blood. 

            “If I ever…if anything like this ever…if I fucking…you evil motherfuckers…you evil, goddamn motherfuckers…”

            He was crying again and Anna was pulling on his arm.  He shook his head fast to clear it and saw stars behind his eyes.

            He walked her home and managed to calm down enough to speak.  He told her that she shouldn’t let boys see those parts of her.  She didn’t seem to understand, but she promised she would “be good”.  Her house was small and dingy.  All the windows were open.  It was hot.  Screen door flapping in the breeze.  He saw a man in an easy chair with a bottle beside him.  Anna ran to the door and waved.  Michael heard the man’s voice.  Harsh. 

            Then it was gone.  He was staring at the fly, which was just beginning to sink.  He blinked his eyes and the pool exploded.  He tried to set the hook, but he was too late.  He leaned the rod against a tree and sat down heavily.

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