A knock at the door... I set my book down on the arm of the couch, let out a deep breath and push myself up out of the sunken cushion.
"Hey."
"Hey, how are ya?"
"I'm...I'm, okay, I suppose?"
"That's good, I suppose," he says as he laughs.
"Sorry, sorry, c'mon in, pal," I stammer out. Lost and out of focus.
"Well, thanks, I figured you were just gonna have me stand at the doorstep the whole time," he says as he walks in. I can smell the perfume from the night before, still lingering on him.
"Right. Ya, sorry, I...um....Jesus, I'm out of it." He gives me that look that the religious types give someone when they use God's or Jesus' name in some way other than an addressing of the spiritual being that God or Jesus is. Or is supposed to be.
"Looks like your power is out," he says. I didn't even notice. Looks like I was lost in the book.
Az stands about 6'2", slightly taller than my 5'11" height. Dark hair, a big bright-white smile. Az is the type of guy a girl will fall in love with in a heartbeat. I think he used to be a model. I don't remember. It's strange; I haven't seen him in years, and he looks identical to the last time I saw him, hasn't aged. Last time I saw him, I was going through some heavy shit. He's a good guy, there when you really need him - that's what I tell myself at least.
"This is a bit different than your last place," Az says as he gazes around my open apartment. The sun shooting through the front bay window, with a cool breeze coming through the side windows.
"Which place?"
"That basement job you lived in. That place was a shithole."
"With the leaky faucet?"
"Everything in there was leaky, man" he says as we both laugh.
"But, at least the power stayed on."
"Sometimes."
I haven't thought about that apartment in years. Has it really been that long since I've seen Az? I guess so? Time fucking flies when you try to live; when everything else in the world is going on.
"Sit down, man," I say, offering up a chair at the table.
Az takes a seat, "Sailor, you got a drink for me?"
"Sure."
"Jack. Neat."
"Original."
"It's what I drink!"
"I'll make it two," I mumble off...
"Oh, you put on you big boy pants?" He condescends to me.
"It's not everyday I'm graced with your presence."
"Yeah, it's been a couple of years, hasn't it?" Az says, as he leans back in the chair.
"I guess it has been. I hadn't thought about it until I saw you standing at the door. Still living down south?"
"Yeah, still in sales, too. Nothing new. Nothing old."
"Making money in this economy?"
"Of course I am, how could I not?" He says, in his 'salesman' pitched voice.
"Az, have you seen this economy?" I ask, matter-of-factly.
"Sure, I've seen lots of shit. Good times, bad times, you know I've had my share," as he starts to hum the song.
"Your woman left home with a brown-eyed man and you still don't seem to care?" I say the next line.
"Danny," he leans into me, "I am that brown-eyed man," he says as he winks at me.
I throw my drink into the back of my throat and get up to pour myself another.
Az' ego makes me sick.
"So, Az, what brings you up north? You don't like the cold."
"It's 96* today. It's the summer, ya moron." His tan, I think, is permanent.
I chuckle, "You weren't just in the neighborhood and figured you'd stop in?"
"I hear you're not doing too hot."
"Word travels fast on the coconut telegraph, doesn't it?"
"No, Danny, it's the BlackBerry network, now."
"Az, you're an azz," I quip.
"Danny, piss off," Az snaps right back at me.
Like lost brothers. Picking up like we'd seen each other only days ago.
"Now, I hear you're not doing too well. I figure I can help you out."
"I don't know how, Az," I wonder, aloud.
"Remember, I helped you with your mom?" He says reassuringly.
"Yeah, I guess you did. That was the last time I saw you, wasn't? You didn't make it up for the funeral...why was that?"
"Man, if I went to every funeral of every person I knew or a person of a person that I knew, I'd never get any work done. I've got a lifestyle to maintain, Danny. Besides, you were stronger then. Now, I don't think you're as strong as you used to be."
That's why women quickly fall out of love with Az. His pearly whites can only mask his devilish ego before so long. But, with his money, he can afford to be the biggest dick he wants to be, and numbers of women will still run to him. Like flies to shit.
"Yeah, but, Az, that was my mother." I pout. Though he's right. I was stronger then. I didn't need anyone's help. How the fuck did I make it through that shitstorm with out losing it?
"Danny, I'm sorry. But, that's why I'm here. I want to make that up to you." He says calmly. Much, like he'd be speaking to an irate customer, whom AZ just lost a fuck ton of money for.
"Make it up to me? How? How the fuck are you going to make it up to me, Az?" I snap. At this point, I'm just being childish and bitter. I should really just put on my big boy pants and keep my trap shut.
I can feel the bitterness sinking in, like a bad sunburn.
"What do you need? Danny, I can get you anything you need," Az says as he throws his arms open. Like a king offering his kingdom to a brave soldier saving him on the battlefield. Only, I haven't saved Az from shit.
"What do you mean? Like getting rid of unpaid parking tickets? Money? A couple of girls for the night? This is the same shit you said last time." I throw my fists down on the table. It shakes the room.
"Danny, Danny Boy, this, this is different," he tries calmly to settle me down.
My anger is clearly visible. Yet for no real reason provoked. This has just been normal, lately.
"Different like how?" I ask. Quickly.
"Different, like I'm looking for a partner," he says, reassuringly.
"A partner," I question. Slowly.
"A business partner, Danny." Az gives a solid response. Stern voice. Almost fatherly.
"Az, you've got the money. You've got the brains. Why do you need a partner?" I prod.
"I want to help you pull through this rut. And, I need some fresh blood. Everyone I've worked with and signed contracts with is dried up, good for nothing ideas, burned out and only looking for money, a quick fix. I need you Danny. I want to work with you, get you into my business. I need fresh blood."
"How the fuck is that gonna help me cope?"
"I don't fucking know. I just figured it'd give you time to clear your head, something to do with your piss ass moping time."
"I don't fucking mope, you cock!"
"I can walk, Danny. I can see you again in a few years." Az knows he won't walk. I know he won't walk.
"Yeah, that's how you operate."
"Let me tell you what I have in mind." Az pulls out his briefcase.
Does this guy do business everywhere? Yeah, I think he does.
Over the next few hours we talk. We drink. The bottle of Jack is getting lighter. We laugh. At some point we needed to eat. So, we ordered food. We kept talking. Learning everything about what Az did. What he does. How he got here. How I am where I am. Wherever that is. We talk about girls. The women we loved; the women who didn't love us. Az has a lot more of those than I would've ever guessed; the loved and the loved nots. I tell him about the good eats in the neighborhood. The best places to catch fish off the docs along the river. He tells me about the southern heat in the summers. How the winters are never warm enough. His disdain for tourists and places like Disney World and New Orleans. We talk about our first cars. Favorite drinks. Future goals. Past failures. Not a life altering conversation, but almost, a complete discography (including the rare and unreleased stuff - oh, and don't forget the picture books).
The sun is starting to set, the dusk sky creeps into the apartment. Az pulls out his briefcase. I turn on the light above the table, but the power is still out. The rush of air from the open windows is a cold breeze - something I hadn't felt in weeks. This sticky, humid, wet, thick heat - I'm surprised that a cold breeze exists in these summer temperatures. I can't imagine how Az could possibly enjoy the summer heat down south.
"What, you've got the contract, here?" I'm shocked.
"Danny, I move quickly." Az says, very matter-of-factly.
"I can see why the women love you."
Az pulls out a folder from his briefcase, open on the table, though, facing him, so I can't see what's inside. Though, it's probably for the best.
"Danny, a lot of this shit is just semantics. Lawyer fluff. Cock-teased bullshit."
"So.... Why do I have to go through it?"
"You don't."
"Then, what do I need to do?"
"Sign," he says, seriously.
"Christ, I feel like I'm signing my soul away, Az."
He gives me that damned look again.
"Got a pen?" I ask.
"Here ya go," as he hands me one from his briefcase.
"Az, I think I need this. This better not fuck me in the long run," I chuckle out.
"Danny, you have no idea how big this will be for me... And you."
A knock at the door. Az looks up at me.
"Expecting any visitors," he asks, sounding like a jealous boyfriend.
"Uh... No," I say, confusedly. I didn't think anyone was coming over.
Az pushes the contract closer to me, as though he's in some sort of a hurry. He doesn't say anything, but the look on his face says he's in a big rush.
I get up, to answer the door, and Az grabs my shoulder to throw me down into the chair. I look at him, baffled. I throw his arm away from me, and get up. Nothing is said during this moment. It's a strange, hard, silence.
I can see a light, beaming through the crack between the door and the floor. I don't bother to look back at Az. I open the door, and the light is beyond bright.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," she says in a slight British accent.
"Rene, what in the world are you doing with a flashlight?"
"The power is out in the building, it's pitch black, Danny."
"Is it?" I ask, as I turn and look at the clock by the TV, that's off. "So, I suppose it is, still...." I can't piece anything together lately. I'd make for a horrible Watson or Holmes.
"Danny, Danny, Danny, have you been drinking?"
"Yeah," I say, as I realize Az and I finished the bottle of Jack. "Az and I were having a few drinks."
"Az?" she asks.
"Yeah, my buddy Az. He's in town. C'mon on in, meet him."
Rene turns off her flashlight, and the place still seems brighter.
I close the door, "Hey, Az, this is my love, Rene," I say, and just like that, the power comes back on. She turns around, and gives me a bright smile. This was the first time I think I've referred to her as something other than a friend. Though, she's dragged my ass through a lot of shit, but nothing like this. She's been the rock that I've clung to in this vicious storm.
Az is in the pisser. Rene grabs a seat at the table.
"So, what were you two talking about about," she asks, directing her vision to the empty bottle of whiskey on the table.
"Ugh," I chuckle out. "Az is looking for a business partner."
"Oh, yeah? What kind of business?"
"He's a pimp, Rene," I sarcastically sputter out. "He needs some muscle."
She gives me that look. You know the look. The one where you say too much. Yeah, that look.
"Azazel, you still in the pisser?" I scream out.
Still no answer. I get up, "Az can explain it a lot better." I walk to the bathroom door, and knock. It swings open. I turn and look at Rene. His briefcase is gone. Along with the contract that was sitting on the table.
"Did he just leave?" she asks, puzzled, though, not as much as me.
"I guess....so?" I'm baffled. Befuddled. Lost.
"Can you call him? Maybe it was an emergency."
"I don't have his cell," I say as I walk to the back of the apartment. "The door is still locked."
"He didn't walk past us through the front door."
"No, no, he didn't."
"And you're going to go in business with him?"
"I was."
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Mexican Showdown
Name's Ryder. He's Mason. We're like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, 'sept we ain't got a bunch of U.S. Government soldiers and officials and don't forget the Federalies - them's the Mexican Government, comin' after us. So, in a way, we's ain't like them. But, we do have Mexicanos comin' after us. A bunch. See, they caught wind of us lookin' for some old Spanish buried treasure. I reckon' they're gonna make us do the leg work, shoot us, and take our treasure. I ain't told Mason 'bout 'em though, so he's in the unknown category. Which is where I plan on keepin' him until he finds out. Otherwise, I ain't got my ridin' partner.
The saloon doors swung open. Dust stuck to us like an engine gettin' tared 'n feathered. The clanking of our boots. We smiled appreciatively as we walked in. Three men to the right, playin' cards. Older fellas. Ain't much to worry about.
The bartender knows me, as he looks up from wipin' down the bar. Two big Mexicanos were trailing us, but rode on past. That was a little too close. We make our way to the bar.
"Well hi there Mason," she shouted, eyes wide, thrilled to see him.
"Howdy, but I reckon' we've never met," he said with a sheepish grin.
"Oh, not you silly," as she limped her wrist in a slapping motion at Mason's hand.
"Miss Annabelle, you look lovely as free bottle'a whiskey," I said as I took my hat off to her.
"Oh Mason, you sure know how to charm a woman!" Annabelle blushed.
"You're the only woman I care to charm," I smiled back, with a wink.
He stared at me in disbelief....
"You used my name?!"
"Well, you weren't wanted here, or the Dakota Territory, or California, or..." I trailed off, laughingly.
"Jesus Christ Ryder!" Mason bellowed.
"Hey, hey, hey...shhhh! They don't know me as Ryder here, I'm Mason," I said calmingly, "They know me as Mason....as you." I couldn't contain my laughter.
"You're a sun-of-a-bitch!"
"I know, I know, but you'll get over it."
"You're a horseshit!"
"Jesus Mason, quitcha bitchin'!"
"You're lucky I'm the only one within three days ride that doesn't want chu dead."
"And for that I am eternally grateful," I bowed to my best friend, Mason....we'll leave last names out of this.
We pulled up to a couple a stools, and pulled 'em out, and took our seats.
"Whiskey, two, doubles."
"Sure thing Mr. Mason," the barkeep replied.
Mason looked over at me with a stare I ain't seen since my mother was fixin' to whip me up as a boy. 'Course, then again, that might a'been the last time I seen 'er. I smiled right back at 'em.
Mason pounded his drink; I took a sip, keepin' my eyes open.
"Gimme another!" Mason hollered.
The 'keep poured Mason a double. Again. I kicked Mason's shin with my spur.
"Jesus, what the Christ is you doin?"
"Shut your trap. Quit chuggin' that shit like it's water. Besides I didn't even kick you that hard."
"Now you ain't got no one in three days ride that wants you alive," Mason grumbled as he bent-over and rubbed his shin. "Why are we lookin' around anyway. Or should I say, why are you lookin' around?"
"I was just checkin' things out. Why you gotta act like an evenin' lady for?"
"I ain't actin' like NO WOman!" Mason spat out but quickly lowered his tone. "I ain't actin' like no woman," he repeated, softer this time.
"I reckon' we're a need a couple a rooms, 'keep."
"Sure thing Mr. Mason."
Mason leaned in over me, still glarin' that Mason glare, "I thought we was just passin' through?"
"Would we be stoppin' off for whiskey if we was just passin' through?"
Mason looked confused, "Yeah? Why wouldn't we?"
"Mason, quit bein' a dumbshit and relax. 'Sides Miss Annabelle happens to have some wonderful hospitality."
"Sure, that's great for you, but don't think I'mma lay there and listen to her hospitality!"
"She's got friends," I said as I leaned back and gave her a little wave.
"She's got friends...." Mason asked as he looked at me, then turned to her, "why didn't you tell me in the first place? Shoot, I think our horses are tired. Good thing you got us those rooms."
"They're wiped out..." I trailed off.
Mason don't know this, and I still ain't fixin' to tell him, but this is where we need to be. Well, not here, in this buildin' with ole Miss Annabelle and her friends. But in this here town. Two days ride from where ever it is we rode in from. Shoot, I can't even remember anymore.
Cut to a few drinks, and a few hours later. Well, 'bout 10 drinks, and by drinks I mean whiskey, and by hours I mean hours.
Me an' 'ole Miss Annabelle made our way up the stairs to my room. Mason was keepin' his hand at poker. None of them 'ole fellas was still playin'. But, some of Miss Annabelle's friends managed to keep him company. Mason is probably the single best card player I ever seen. Which has caused a few draws. Some we won, and some we...oh hell, we won 'em all. Otherwise we ain't fixin' to be here. Needless to say, I think Mason'll be OK on his own. Don't look like much a threat tonight. But, ya never know. Ya get some fellas drinkin' their whiskey 'n losin' to Mason, 'cause 'em all to get pissed off.
But, the way Miss Annabelle keeps lookin' at me, Mason, I don't much give a shit about Mason, err Mason, playin' cards. But the money he'll win tonight will pale in comparison to that 'ole Spanish gold, jewels, treasure, whatever else them Spaniards thrown in that chest.
I ain't sure what I'll do with my share. I think somewhere I ain't never been. Maybe the states out east? I been to St. Louis. Passed through there when I was runnin' 'way from my dear 'ole mama. Bless her soul. She passed a few years ago, got word through the Pony Express when I was locked up in some shithole. Mason, naturally, saved my ass from a short rope and a long drop.
I ain't too sure what Mason'll do with his share. Probably shit himself.
Well, hell forget about Mason. I need to get back to Miss Annabelle. So, we get to my door, and as I turn to open it, she grabs my gun holster and pulls me into her for a kiss. I picked her up and carried her into my room. With her face and chest blockin' my view, I stumbled into the room, trying to find the bed - keep in mind, there weren't no lights. We fell onto the bed. I stood up and struck a match from the box on the bedside table - classy place here. Well, Miss Annabelle shows me some good hospitality. And a second time for good measure. And a third. Well, shit, if you seen Miss Annabelle, you'd go for a fourth, too.
"Mason, how is it you only come 'round these parts once every so often?" Miss Annabelle questions.
"Well, I reckon', I'm ridin'...a lot. Movin' cattle 'cross the territories. Clearin' out engine," I lie to her. She don't need to know what I do.
"Oh, I was just wonderin'. I'd like it a lot more if you came around more often."
"I suppose that'd make two of us," I say, as I rolled over for round five.
'Round that time I start to hear some hoopin' and hollerin' from downstairs. I paid it no mind as I was busy lettin' Miss Annabelle show me a good time 'n all. 'N wouldn't you know it, I hear some Spanish. I ain't speak Spanish, so I don't know what's bein' yelled at or who's bein' yelled at. Mason, I reckon' has pissed off some son-of-a-bitch, by winnin', 'n runnin' his mouth. Mason has a tendency for bein' a showoff. And, well, bein' a class "A" asshole. But, like I said, he's the only one in a three day ride who don't want me dead. Except for when I swing open the door with my night strut, after finishin' up with Miss Annabelle.
Son of a bitch.
There's them Mexicanos - so much for that three day ride. I knew they was fixin' for us to do the work. The thing is, they know Mason is ridin' with me. Mason don't know them. This is one of them times I should've put Mason in the know category.
"Miss Annabelle, be a dear 'n toss me my gun belt," I said over my shoulder, not keepin' my eyes off the situation brewin' downstairs.
She grabbed the belt, and flung it at me. It hit the wall, shells fallin' out every which way.
"God dammit Annabelle!" I yelled as I bent down and swooped up my belt and threw it around my shoulder as I began to make my way downstairs.
"Mason! What in the Sam Hell is goin' on?" I yelled. See, a few drinks and a few more rounds with Miss Annabelle blurred my memory that I was Mason. Looks like the secret's out. The room stopped and looked at me. Including them two big Mexicans who was followin' us from earlier that rode on. And, well now, a few more.
"Quién es él," the barrel-gutted Mexicano asked. I don't speak no Spanish, so I don't have a fuckin' clue as to what he said. "Quién es él?" he shouted!
"Mason, the hell is goin' on down here?" I asked, in a matter-a-fact kinda way. I do this when I need to take charge.
"They came ridin' in, askin' for you. Says you know somethin' about treasure," he stammered out confusingly, "Spanish treasure."
Well shit.
"Spanish treasure?" I forced out a laugh.
"Yeah, Spanish treasure," Mason snipped at me. A pile of poker chips in front of him. His right hand on his six-shooter, back against the wall, sittin' on his chair. He still hasn't gotten up. Even with the Mexicanos standing over him, guns drawn. Mason is the only one I'd want in this kinda situation.
"Huh, don't know much about it," I said as I could feel the Mexicanos starin' daggers into me.
"Donde está el Ryder?" The big Mexicano asked, for what was not the first time. But, the rest of the room knew me as Mason an Mason as, well, shit I dunno.
"Ryder," I questioned.
"Yeah, they're lookin' for Ryder," Mason snipped, again.
"I reckon' I'm Ryder," I responded, to what I don't know. "Mason, you speak Spanish?" I asked as the rest of the saloon looked at me, comin' to the realization that I wasn't Mason.
"Ryder, you'da been dead by now if it weren't for me," he said, "'Course I speak Spanish. Ya hafta, when ridin' with you."
"I reckon' you ain't never said anything to me."
"Ryder, do I ask ya if I can take a shit?"
"Absolutamente gringos!"
"Really, there's a lot about me you don't know the first thing about!"
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yeah! That's so!"
"Well shit, maybe there is a buried Spanish treasure!"
"No shit Ryder," Mason belted condescendingly. The nerve of him. After all I've done to make sure he gets his share.
"El tesoro español, que sabe sobre él?"
"Why the fuck does he keep talkin'?" I screamed.
"HE WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT THE GOD DAMNED SPANISH TREASURE!"
"Oh, well tell him I ain't talkin'."
"Él.....dice que......él no está hablando," Mason said to the Mexicano.
The Mexicano bellowed out a laugh. "Diga a su amigo que él es un hombre divertido."
"Más bién un dolor en el asno," Mason responded.
The Mexicano bellowed out another laugh. "Usted es absolutamente divertido. Ahora, dígame lo que usted sabe sobre el tesoro español."
"No sé cualquier cosa. Pienso que Ryder es el que usted quiere hablar con," said Mason.
I can only imagine what they're sayin'. Probably some shit about, well, fuck I don't know.
"Mason, what the shit is goin' on?"
"I'm fixin' to figure that out, too. So what about this treasure?"
"Dammit Mason, I was gonna tell ya."
"When? When we was gettin' shot by a bunch a Mexicanos?"
"Before that!"
"Before that," Mason repeated, "No sé cualquier cosa, sino continúo y lo tiro de todos modos," he said to the Mexicano.
"Gringo, usted es un hombre divertido divertido. Pero debemos discutir el tesoro. Ahora venido, dígame."
"Ryder, they'd like to know about the treasure."
"Tell 'em I say to fuck off."
"I reckon' you ought to tell 'em yourself. I don't think we're gonna like their response."
"Well, what'cha thinkin' we oughtta do?"
"Tell 'em about the fuckin' god dammed treasure!"
"Mason, we can't do that! We do and we're dead!"
"We don't and we're dead to!"
I hate it when Mason is right.
"There's eight of 'em."
"Glad you can count, Ryder."
"You got two guns, I got one."
"And that's only 18 bullets. Not to mention the fact that you're drunk."
"Yeah, but he's fat," I point to the barrel-chested Mexicano, squinting. "I could shoot him. That kinda target is hard to miss."
"Usted quiere comenzar a hablar," the Mexicano asked.
"No, Estoy intentando hablar algunos cerebros en mi amigo," Mason responded back
The Mexicanos still haven't put there guns down. Most if not all the saloon has already run off.
"Ryder, there's only two of us."
"Ryder, there's only two of us," I mocked back, as Mason glared at me. He needs to knock that shit off. That glarin' shit.
"Mason, I don't want to die in some Mexican showdown."
"It's a 'Mexican standoff!'"
"Then why are you sittin'?"
Mason shook his head at me, pretty much informin' me that he didn't plan on standin'.
"Well, I'm drawin' unless you got a better idea."
"Ryder, I ain't the idea man. I reckon' I'll see ya on the other side."
"Yeah, we ain't lost yet."
"Our string 'a luck is startin' to run out."
"How so?"
"'Cause I'm sittin' here with a few hundred dollars in front of me, about to get shot in a hail of bullets because you're a dumbass."
"Well, shit, Mason," I say, "you gonna hold this over me? Make it my fault?"
"Qué usted quieren saber sobre el tesoro," Mason asked the Mexicanos.
"Díganos todo," the barrel-chested Mexicano responded.
"El pozo deja charla."
"Bueno."
Mason drew both guns, under the table and cocked 'em. I had six shots to hit the fat Mexicano. I'd let Mason worry about the other seven. Well, I'm sure I'd shoot some too, if only on accident.
I pulled out my gun from the holster, still strapped over my shoulder. This caught the attention of all the Mexicanos as they cocked their guns. Looks like had ourselves an official Mexican standoff.
The thing about these things is ya already know they're gonna happen. The trick is to remain calm. Think of somethin' else, as opposed to the thought of imminent death for you and them. Well, I reckon' who gives a shit if they die. It's me 'n Mason I'm worried about. Things start to slow down. Not that people movin' slower, but they are. Bullets too. Kinda hard to put into words.
You don't feel like you're breathin', your pulse slows down. Details become more clear. I reckon' through a saloon full 'a noise, I could still hear the clank of a bottle or the footsteps of somethin' in the back room. You know, noises you ain't never hear in a normal circumstance in a saloon. But, this ain't exactly a normal circumstance. Funny thing though, your mind races. While every thing else is slowin' down, seems like every thought you ever had in the world comes in your head. Fast too, like a bullet.
"Mason, what's the Mexican word for goodbye?"
"Adios," he said and with that a hail of bullets flew across the saloon.
Two bullets tore into my chest, as I fell down to my knees. I had two more hit me, God only knows where. Mason got three shots off, dropping two of the Mexicanos to the floor; I didn't know if they were dead or not. The barrel-chested Mexicano was still standin'. I fired off two shots, at point blank range, missing both times, as I fell slowly face first to the floor. He just laughed. I watched, as everything slowed down. Mason got hit in the neck. Blood began shootin' out like a geyser as a look of bein' lost took over his pale face. He couldn't shoot no more, as he fell limp over the table, bullets flyin' into his body. My brother, layin' there, dead on his Spanish treasure.
The saloon doors swung open. Dust stuck to us like an engine gettin' tared 'n feathered. The clanking of our boots. We smiled appreciatively as we walked in. Three men to the right, playin' cards. Older fellas. Ain't much to worry about.
The bartender knows me, as he looks up from wipin' down the bar. Two big Mexicanos were trailing us, but rode on past. That was a little too close. We make our way to the bar.
"Well hi there Mason," she shouted, eyes wide, thrilled to see him.
"Howdy, but I reckon' we've never met," he said with a sheepish grin.
"Oh, not you silly," as she limped her wrist in a slapping motion at Mason's hand.
"Miss Annabelle, you look lovely as free bottle'a whiskey," I said as I took my hat off to her.
"Oh Mason, you sure know how to charm a woman!" Annabelle blushed.
"You're the only woman I care to charm," I smiled back, with a wink.
He stared at me in disbelief....
"You used my name?!"
"Well, you weren't wanted here, or the Dakota Territory, or California, or..." I trailed off, laughingly.
"Jesus Christ Ryder!" Mason bellowed.
"Hey, hey, hey...shhhh! They don't know me as Ryder here, I'm Mason," I said calmingly, "They know me as Mason....as you." I couldn't contain my laughter.
"You're a sun-of-a-bitch!"
"I know, I know, but you'll get over it."
"You're a horseshit!"
"Jesus Mason, quitcha bitchin'!"
"You're lucky I'm the only one within three days ride that doesn't want chu dead."
"And for that I am eternally grateful," I bowed to my best friend, Mason....we'll leave last names out of this.
We pulled up to a couple a stools, and pulled 'em out, and took our seats.
"Whiskey, two, doubles."
"Sure thing Mr. Mason," the barkeep replied.
Mason looked over at me with a stare I ain't seen since my mother was fixin' to whip me up as a boy. 'Course, then again, that might a'been the last time I seen 'er. I smiled right back at 'em.
Mason pounded his drink; I took a sip, keepin' my eyes open.
"Gimme another!" Mason hollered.
The 'keep poured Mason a double. Again. I kicked Mason's shin with my spur.
"Jesus, what the Christ is you doin?"
"Shut your trap. Quit chuggin' that shit like it's water. Besides I didn't even kick you that hard."
"Now you ain't got no one in three days ride that wants you alive," Mason grumbled as he bent-over and rubbed his shin. "Why are we lookin' around anyway. Or should I say, why are you lookin' around?"
"I was just checkin' things out. Why you gotta act like an evenin' lady for?"
"I ain't actin' like NO WOman!" Mason spat out but quickly lowered his tone. "I ain't actin' like no woman," he repeated, softer this time.
"I reckon' we're a need a couple a rooms, 'keep."
"Sure thing Mr. Mason."
Mason leaned in over me, still glarin' that Mason glare, "I thought we was just passin' through?"
"Would we be stoppin' off for whiskey if we was just passin' through?"
Mason looked confused, "Yeah? Why wouldn't we?"
"Mason, quit bein' a dumbshit and relax. 'Sides Miss Annabelle happens to have some wonderful hospitality."
"Sure, that's great for you, but don't think I'mma lay there and listen to her hospitality!"
"She's got friends," I said as I leaned back and gave her a little wave.
"She's got friends...." Mason asked as he looked at me, then turned to her, "why didn't you tell me in the first place? Shoot, I think our horses are tired. Good thing you got us those rooms."
"They're wiped out..." I trailed off.
Mason don't know this, and I still ain't fixin' to tell him, but this is where we need to be. Well, not here, in this buildin' with ole Miss Annabelle and her friends. But in this here town. Two days ride from where ever it is we rode in from. Shoot, I can't even remember anymore.
Cut to a few drinks, and a few hours later. Well, 'bout 10 drinks, and by drinks I mean whiskey, and by hours I mean hours.
Me an' 'ole Miss Annabelle made our way up the stairs to my room. Mason was keepin' his hand at poker. None of them 'ole fellas was still playin'. But, some of Miss Annabelle's friends managed to keep him company. Mason is probably the single best card player I ever seen. Which has caused a few draws. Some we won, and some we...oh hell, we won 'em all. Otherwise we ain't fixin' to be here. Needless to say, I think Mason'll be OK on his own. Don't look like much a threat tonight. But, ya never know. Ya get some fellas drinkin' their whiskey 'n losin' to Mason, 'cause 'em all to get pissed off.
But, the way Miss Annabelle keeps lookin' at me, Mason, I don't much give a shit about Mason, err Mason, playin' cards. But the money he'll win tonight will pale in comparison to that 'ole Spanish gold, jewels, treasure, whatever else them Spaniards thrown in that chest.
I ain't sure what I'll do with my share. I think somewhere I ain't never been. Maybe the states out east? I been to St. Louis. Passed through there when I was runnin' 'way from my dear 'ole mama. Bless her soul. She passed a few years ago, got word through the Pony Express when I was locked up in some shithole. Mason, naturally, saved my ass from a short rope and a long drop.
I ain't too sure what Mason'll do with his share. Probably shit himself.
Well, hell forget about Mason. I need to get back to Miss Annabelle. So, we get to my door, and as I turn to open it, she grabs my gun holster and pulls me into her for a kiss. I picked her up and carried her into my room. With her face and chest blockin' my view, I stumbled into the room, trying to find the bed - keep in mind, there weren't no lights. We fell onto the bed. I stood up and struck a match from the box on the bedside table - classy place here. Well, Miss Annabelle shows me some good hospitality. And a second time for good measure. And a third. Well, shit, if you seen Miss Annabelle, you'd go for a fourth, too.
"Mason, how is it you only come 'round these parts once every so often?" Miss Annabelle questions.
"Well, I reckon', I'm ridin'...a lot. Movin' cattle 'cross the territories. Clearin' out engine," I lie to her. She don't need to know what I do.
"Oh, I was just wonderin'. I'd like it a lot more if you came around more often."
"I suppose that'd make two of us," I say, as I rolled over for round five.
'Round that time I start to hear some hoopin' and hollerin' from downstairs. I paid it no mind as I was busy lettin' Miss Annabelle show me a good time 'n all. 'N wouldn't you know it, I hear some Spanish. I ain't speak Spanish, so I don't know what's bein' yelled at or who's bein' yelled at. Mason, I reckon' has pissed off some son-of-a-bitch, by winnin', 'n runnin' his mouth. Mason has a tendency for bein' a showoff. And, well, bein' a class "A" asshole. But, like I said, he's the only one in a three day ride who don't want me dead. Except for when I swing open the door with my night strut, after finishin' up with Miss Annabelle.
Son of a bitch.
There's them Mexicanos - so much for that three day ride. I knew they was fixin' for us to do the work. The thing is, they know Mason is ridin' with me. Mason don't know them. This is one of them times I should've put Mason in the know category.
"Miss Annabelle, be a dear 'n toss me my gun belt," I said over my shoulder, not keepin' my eyes off the situation brewin' downstairs.
She grabbed the belt, and flung it at me. It hit the wall, shells fallin' out every which way.
"God dammit Annabelle!" I yelled as I bent down and swooped up my belt and threw it around my shoulder as I began to make my way downstairs.
"Mason! What in the Sam Hell is goin' on?" I yelled. See, a few drinks and a few more rounds with Miss Annabelle blurred my memory that I was Mason. Looks like the secret's out. The room stopped and looked at me. Including them two big Mexicans who was followin' us from earlier that rode on. And, well now, a few more.
"Quién es él," the barrel-gutted Mexicano asked. I don't speak no Spanish, so I don't have a fuckin' clue as to what he said. "Quién es él?" he shouted!
"Mason, the hell is goin' on down here?" I asked, in a matter-a-fact kinda way. I do this when I need to take charge.
"They came ridin' in, askin' for you. Says you know somethin' about treasure," he stammered out confusingly, "Spanish treasure."
Well shit.
"Spanish treasure?" I forced out a laugh.
"Yeah, Spanish treasure," Mason snipped at me. A pile of poker chips in front of him. His right hand on his six-shooter, back against the wall, sittin' on his chair. He still hasn't gotten up. Even with the Mexicanos standing over him, guns drawn. Mason is the only one I'd want in this kinda situation.
"Huh, don't know much about it," I said as I could feel the Mexicanos starin' daggers into me.
"Donde está el Ryder?" The big Mexicano asked, for what was not the first time. But, the rest of the room knew me as Mason an Mason as, well, shit I dunno.
"Ryder," I questioned.
"Yeah, they're lookin' for Ryder," Mason snipped, again.
"I reckon' I'm Ryder," I responded, to what I don't know. "Mason, you speak Spanish?" I asked as the rest of the saloon looked at me, comin' to the realization that I wasn't Mason.
"Ryder, you'da been dead by now if it weren't for me," he said, "'Course I speak Spanish. Ya hafta, when ridin' with you."
"I reckon' you ain't never said anything to me."
"Ryder, do I ask ya if I can take a shit?"
"Absolutamente gringos!"
"Really, there's a lot about me you don't know the first thing about!"
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yeah! That's so!"
"Well shit, maybe there is a buried Spanish treasure!"
"No shit Ryder," Mason belted condescendingly. The nerve of him. After all I've done to make sure he gets his share.
"El tesoro español, que sabe sobre él?"
"Why the fuck does he keep talkin'?" I screamed.
"HE WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT THE GOD DAMNED SPANISH TREASURE!"
"Oh, well tell him I ain't talkin'."
"Él.....dice que......él no está hablando," Mason said to the Mexicano.
The Mexicano bellowed out a laugh. "Diga a su amigo que él es un hombre divertido."
"Más bién un dolor en el asno," Mason responded.
The Mexicano bellowed out another laugh. "Usted es absolutamente divertido. Ahora, dígame lo que usted sabe sobre el tesoro español."
"No sé cualquier cosa. Pienso que Ryder es el que usted quiere hablar con," said Mason.
I can only imagine what they're sayin'. Probably some shit about, well, fuck I don't know.
"Mason, what the shit is goin' on?"
"I'm fixin' to figure that out, too. So what about this treasure?"
"Dammit Mason, I was gonna tell ya."
"When? When we was gettin' shot by a bunch a Mexicanos?"
"Before that!"
"Before that," Mason repeated, "No sé cualquier cosa, sino continúo y lo tiro de todos modos," he said to the Mexicano.
"Gringo, usted es un hombre divertido divertido. Pero debemos discutir el tesoro. Ahora venido, dígame."
"Ryder, they'd like to know about the treasure."
"Tell 'em I say to fuck off."
"I reckon' you ought to tell 'em yourself. I don't think we're gonna like their response."
"Well, what'cha thinkin' we oughtta do?"
"Tell 'em about the fuckin' god dammed treasure!"
"Mason, we can't do that! We do and we're dead!"
"We don't and we're dead to!"
I hate it when Mason is right.
"There's eight of 'em."
"Glad you can count, Ryder."
"You got two guns, I got one."
"And that's only 18 bullets. Not to mention the fact that you're drunk."
"Yeah, but he's fat," I point to the barrel-chested Mexicano, squinting. "I could shoot him. That kinda target is hard to miss."
"Usted quiere comenzar a hablar," the Mexicano asked.
"No, Estoy intentando hablar algunos cerebros en mi amigo," Mason responded back
The Mexicanos still haven't put there guns down. Most if not all the saloon has already run off.
"Ryder, there's only two of us."
"Ryder, there's only two of us," I mocked back, as Mason glared at me. He needs to knock that shit off. That glarin' shit.
"Mason, I don't want to die in some Mexican showdown."
"It's a 'Mexican standoff!'"
"Then why are you sittin'?"
Mason shook his head at me, pretty much informin' me that he didn't plan on standin'.
"Well, I'm drawin' unless you got a better idea."
"Ryder, I ain't the idea man. I reckon' I'll see ya on the other side."
"Yeah, we ain't lost yet."
"Our string 'a luck is startin' to run out."
"How so?"
"'Cause I'm sittin' here with a few hundred dollars in front of me, about to get shot in a hail of bullets because you're a dumbass."
"Well, shit, Mason," I say, "you gonna hold this over me? Make it my fault?"
"Qué usted quieren saber sobre el tesoro," Mason asked the Mexicanos.
"Díganos todo," the barrel-chested Mexicano responded.
"El pozo deja charla."
"Bueno."
Mason drew both guns, under the table and cocked 'em. I had six shots to hit the fat Mexicano. I'd let Mason worry about the other seven. Well, I'm sure I'd shoot some too, if only on accident.
I pulled out my gun from the holster, still strapped over my shoulder. This caught the attention of all the Mexicanos as they cocked their guns. Looks like had ourselves an official Mexican standoff.
The thing about these things is ya already know they're gonna happen. The trick is to remain calm. Think of somethin' else, as opposed to the thought of imminent death for you and them. Well, I reckon' who gives a shit if they die. It's me 'n Mason I'm worried about. Things start to slow down. Not that people movin' slower, but they are. Bullets too. Kinda hard to put into words.
You don't feel like you're breathin', your pulse slows down. Details become more clear. I reckon' through a saloon full 'a noise, I could still hear the clank of a bottle or the footsteps of somethin' in the back room. You know, noises you ain't never hear in a normal circumstance in a saloon. But, this ain't exactly a normal circumstance. Funny thing though, your mind races. While every thing else is slowin' down, seems like every thought you ever had in the world comes in your head. Fast too, like a bullet.
"Mason, what's the Mexican word for goodbye?"
"Adios," he said and with that a hail of bullets flew across the saloon.
Two bullets tore into my chest, as I fell down to my knees. I had two more hit me, God only knows where. Mason got three shots off, dropping two of the Mexicanos to the floor; I didn't know if they were dead or not. The barrel-chested Mexicano was still standin'. I fired off two shots, at point blank range, missing both times, as I fell slowly face first to the floor. He just laughed. I watched, as everything slowed down. Mason got hit in the neck. Blood began shootin' out like a geyser as a look of bein' lost took over his pale face. He couldn't shoot no more, as he fell limp over the table, bullets flyin' into his body. My brother, layin' there, dead on his Spanish treasure.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Drive
Written Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Getting behind the wheel - there's power. You become the master of a two-ton wrecking machine. Gas. Brake. Clutch. Windows rolled down - the top if you're lucky. Gripping the steering wheel, white knuckled with a cold sweat. Like your first fight, you look around, trying to anticipate what others around you are doing, but ultimately it doesn't matter. You're in control. For once, you are your own boss. Going as fast as you need to to get where you're going, if anywhere in particular.
Weaving in and out of traffic like Barry Sanders. Cutting left. Then jamming on the gas pedal to avoid getting rear ended. You're flying now. Look ahead, the left lane is clear. You glance in your mirror like you do when you're checking yourself out in a reflective window walking down the street. Not enough to be considered vein. Not enough to worry about anyone that might be behind you as you start gliding down the highway.
The music blares. Not any of that top-40 crap. The oldies can't handle the speed. Jazz doesn't provide enough of a rhythm. Rock. Rock will direct your speed - dictate to the world who's highway this is. It's yours. The drum beat. Your foot listens to and adopts the pace of the skin player - like you were in the rehearsals when the song was cut. Your thumb now taps along on the steering wheel - picking up the beat.
You can't understand the words. You've tuned out the singer - the song is all too familiar to you, anyway. Your eyes are darting. The side view mirrors. All you see are the reflection from the lights behind you as each person you pass becomes another statistic.
The road bends, you bend. The tires hug the corner like the women saying goodbye to their G.I. Joes for the last time. There's no tears here, just rubber. Concrete. Inches from smearing the car against the sidewall. It doesn't matter, you don't think twice as the cars vibrations are almost unnoticeable. It hums like when your mother would lay you down to go to bed as a baby. It's a calming hum.
The songs have changed - but you haven't noticed. You're still in the moment. You can't take the risk of taking your eyes off the road - the station stays put. The car in the left lane isn't going to keep up with you. In your head you execute the perfect maneuver to avoid them without having to lay off the gas - time, is of the essence. Your hands are wet - you rub them on your pants to dry off the cold sweat.
You know people are looking at you as you fly by - the bullet leaving them for dead. Dust. You don't have the luxury of looking to see who's in the car next to you, like all the other times you've been in the car. It's not for fear of anything other than knowing you're better than them. It's not a race, but, you're not losing.
You lean forward to check your blindspot. You move right. Quick. The exit is coming. You don't know how far - you've yet to read a sign. You've been here before, it's no different than all the other trips you've made before.
Check the blind spot again. Clear. You hit the off ramp and lay on the brake. You pull of the highway and park the car. The cold sweat is gone. Your heart is pounding like the bass drum as the music blares. You turn the key and step out of the car. You breathe.
Getting behind the wheel - there's power. You become the master of a two-ton wrecking machine. Gas. Brake. Clutch. Windows rolled down - the top if you're lucky. Gripping the steering wheel, white knuckled with a cold sweat. Like your first fight, you look around, trying to anticipate what others around you are doing, but ultimately it doesn't matter. You're in control. For once, you are your own boss. Going as fast as you need to to get where you're going, if anywhere in particular.
Weaving in and out of traffic like Barry Sanders. Cutting left. Then jamming on the gas pedal to avoid getting rear ended. You're flying now. Look ahead, the left lane is clear. You glance in your mirror like you do when you're checking yourself out in a reflective window walking down the street. Not enough to be considered vein. Not enough to worry about anyone that might be behind you as you start gliding down the highway.
The music blares. Not any of that top-40 crap. The oldies can't handle the speed. Jazz doesn't provide enough of a rhythm. Rock. Rock will direct your speed - dictate to the world who's highway this is. It's yours. The drum beat. Your foot listens to and adopts the pace of the skin player - like you were in the rehearsals when the song was cut. Your thumb now taps along on the steering wheel - picking up the beat.
You can't understand the words. You've tuned out the singer - the song is all too familiar to you, anyway. Your eyes are darting. The side view mirrors. All you see are the reflection from the lights behind you as each person you pass becomes another statistic.
The road bends, you bend. The tires hug the corner like the women saying goodbye to their G.I. Joes for the last time. There's no tears here, just rubber. Concrete. Inches from smearing the car against the sidewall. It doesn't matter, you don't think twice as the cars vibrations are almost unnoticeable. It hums like when your mother would lay you down to go to bed as a baby. It's a calming hum.
The songs have changed - but you haven't noticed. You're still in the moment. You can't take the risk of taking your eyes off the road - the station stays put. The car in the left lane isn't going to keep up with you. In your head you execute the perfect maneuver to avoid them without having to lay off the gas - time, is of the essence. Your hands are wet - you rub them on your pants to dry off the cold sweat.
You know people are looking at you as you fly by - the bullet leaving them for dead. Dust. You don't have the luxury of looking to see who's in the car next to you, like all the other times you've been in the car. It's not for fear of anything other than knowing you're better than them. It's not a race, but, you're not losing.
You lean forward to check your blindspot. You move right. Quick. The exit is coming. You don't know how far - you've yet to read a sign. You've been here before, it's no different than all the other trips you've made before.
Check the blind spot again. Clear. You hit the off ramp and lay on the brake. You pull of the highway and park the car. The cold sweat is gone. Your heart is pounding like the bass drum as the music blares. You turn the key and step out of the car. You breathe.
Black Donald
Written Tuesday, October 21, 2008
It was dark. The moon light scattered in the tree branches as Jeff and Rob made their way down a back country road that their 1989 Chevy pick-up was guiding them down - a road they've traveled so many times before.
Only this time it was different.
"Well folks," a voice crackled on the radio, "it looks like we got ourselves that '20 Year Storm,' so stay inside, hunker down and let some good ole southern boys make ya'll feel at ease."
Lynyrd Skynyrd's "That Smell," blared from the speakers in the rusty cab of the truck.
The rain came down in buckets, no lightning but enough thunder to set off the dog barks.
Jeff and Rob weren't you're average buddies. Jeff, short for Jefferson Alpeck, and Rob, short for Robert L. Johnson were named after southern Civil War heroes – some 240 years after the war – and just like those that fought in the Civil War, Jeff and Rob upheld the belief that they were created better than others. They were part of the brethren known as the Ku Klux Klan.
In most areas they'd be wanted for murder, but here, they're just some of the "good ole boys." They've never been arrested or questioned for the murder they committed some four years ago.
Her name was Abigail Reed, a 14-year-old honor student. Her crime – being black.
Abigail was walking home one late summer evening from her cousin's house when Jeff and Rob drove up on her.
Reeking of moonshine, they began harassing her as their trusty pick-up truck crept along side her now quickening pace.
She'd seen this truck before. Over two hills and across Johnson's Bridge, in the corn fields where they burned crosses. She's seen the two ghost men before, too. But, not their faces. She remembered what her mother told her; repeatedly.
"Don't look at 'em! Don't you talk to 'em! You just get on home where you'll be safe!"
"Whatcha doin?" the men in the white hoods asked her.
She didn't dignify them with a response, but instead, began jogging towards her destination – home.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to ya! Ya fuckin' bitch!" Rob screamed out.
Abigail began a full sprint along the road while Rob's foot hardly pressed on the gas pedal. Within a matter of seconds Rob stomped on his gas pedal and cut off the would be path of Abigail. Dust kicked up the setting sun sky. To the average person seeing this, they would've assumed a truck had blown out a tire.
Screaming, she came to a stop. But, like most areas in their rural county, there was no one to hear her screams.
The two ghosts jumped out of the cab of the truck and swooped up a kicking and feisty Abigail.
"AH! Bitch scratched me!" Jeff hollered, and with that, slapped her with his big heavy farming hand. It hit Abigail with a force she's never felt. The impact caused her to hit her head on the side of the truck bed, knocking her out.
They tossed her motionless body into the bed and hopped into the cab. They drove for what felt like hours, never removing their masks - their protection.
The truck finally rolled to a stop in the middle of a field coming to the start of a small forest. Getting out, they grabbed Abigail's body, which remained motionless.
Jeff got out of the passenger's side, lifting up his hood, and took a big swig out of the bottle, and grabbed the rope sitting in the middle of the cab. Rob hopped out of the driver's side and grabbed the limp body that had only moved around due to his fanatic driving.
He tossed her over his shoulder like a potato sack as the three of them made their way into the woods. They stumbled some 20 feet in before giving up and throwing her down against a tree.
"Gimme that rope!" hollered Rob, as he snatched the rope from Jeff's hands like a dog feeding on table scraps at a steak house. Jeff walked around to the other side of the tree and waited for Rob to pass the rope around.
Within a matter of moments, Abigail Reed was tied up and still unconscious.
"Let the fuggin' varmints eat 'er," Rob growled out.
"Shoot, ain't no one gonna miss her anyway," said Jeff, agreeing with Rob's thought to keep her there.
They turned and took their time getting back to the truck, but once there, realized something was wrong.
"Where the fugg is your mask, ya dumbshit?" Rob questioned.
"Ah fuck!" Jeff said, grabbing at his head, realizing that it had fallen off.
"Lets go back. You know you's a retard right?" Rob joked towards his disgruntled friend.
"Yeah, yeah, shut up!" Jeff snarled back.
Coming back to the tree where they left Abigail, Jeff saw his hood. He stepped over, bent down and picked it up. While doing so, keeping his eyes glued on Abigail.
She stared right back, a look of questioning horror.
She knew the man.
Jefferson Alpeck.
He lived just around the corner from her.
"Oh fuck! She's up! Oh fuck, she's up!" Jeff hollered.
"WHAT?" yelled Rob.
"She looked right at me. SHE' FUCKIN' AWAKE"
"Sun-uh-bitch. Looks like we gots-ta do somethin' here."
"Yeah, yeah we do," Jeff said with a eyebrow raise and a devilish smirk across his face.
He bent down and with one hand, gripped her neck while looking her right in the eye, the moonlight providing the only light he needed to make sure he did the job.
"She ain't gonna tell no one," Jeff said reassuringly as her body went limp and stopped breathing.
"You a sick sun-uh-bitch," Rob laughingly replied.
"Yeah," Jeff sheepishly replied, keeping his head down like a five-year-old getting in trouble for spilling a glass of water.
"Suppose we better get the fugg outta here."
Jeff bent down and grabbed his mask and the two made their way back to the truck.
The rain was pouring as the two made their way down the road, the same one they traveled down with Abigail Reed in their truck bed, four years ago. This time though, they were on their way to a rally as they could see the orange in the sky in the distance, even with the rain coming down like it does only once every 20-years.
Abigail Reed was the last thing on their mind as they saw headlights coming at them. Not thinking anything of it, Jeff cut to the middle of the road, a little game of chicken.
Just as doing so, he saw a girl run across the road.
Abigail Reed stopped in the headlights, starring at Jeff and Rob.
"What the?" Rob slowly let out as Jeff cut the wheel hard to the right, trying to avoid the ghost in their past.
The truck came to a halt in a row of trees on the right side of the road.
The headlights of the car slowed and came to a stop.
A black man, wearing a black suit, black tie, black shoes, a white shirt, and a black fedora stepped out of the driver's seat of his black 1972 Cadillac DeVille. A well dressed man and a very nice car for such a poor area.
He walked slowly towards the disaster.
"Oh my," he said aloud as he came to the body of Rob, laying in the road, face down. He was thrown out of the windshield of the truck, "I don't think you made it."
He made his way to the truck. Jeff, sitting there, his head smashed against the steering wheel, but still hanging on for life.
"Well Jefferson, looks like you've got yourself a problem," said the man, calmly. Too calmly for such an accident as this.
"Please mister, please save me," Jeff cried out. Tears rolling down his cheeks, next to the blood that came from his forehead on down. "Did ya see that girl? Oh, no, did ya see her?"
"No, there's no girl out here but, I suppose you'll have to do me a favor."
"Yeah, yeah, OK, please just. OH GOD!" Jeff bellowed out.
"I'm not God," laughed the man in the black suit, "but, I do reckon it's time for you to be a changin' your ways now, son."
Jeff nodded then fell into unconsciousness.
The man pulled Jeff from the wreckage and carried him over to his car and put him into the back seat.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Jeff asked the man questions.
"Who are you?"
"The name is Donald. They call me Black Donald, on account of me always wearing black suits," said Donald, the man in the black suit.
His head pounding, Jeff went back under.
He came back a few minutes later.
"Where are you takin' me?"
"Why, to the hospital, son. You need some help."
"No, you can't take me there, I'm wearing my robe," Jeff cried out. "They'll see me and know who I am."
"Yes, but that's not who you are anymore. Now get some rest, you need it."
The black DeVille pulled up to the county hospital and the car came to a stop. There was no one around. Donald stepped out of the car, and walked around, the rain still pouring down as lightning and thunder rolled through the black night. He opened the door and woke Jeff.
"Let's go, we're here and you'll be alright."
Jeff didn't respond but the look of thanks in his eyes was enough for the man in the black suit.
Donald helped Jeff up the ramp into the hospital. The nurse had her head down as the two men walked in. A black man and a white man wearing the cloak of the KKK. A site that surely would've given the young nurse a heart attack.
He sat Jeff down in a chair, turned and headed for the door.
"Wait, how can I thank you?" Jeff asked.
"You'll see, eventually," said the man in the black suit as he walked back out the door.
The nurse looking up to see Jeff, blood soaked, screamed. She never heard the two men come in, nor saw them.
Hearing the nurse's scream, the night shift doctor and several nurses came running into the waiting room.
Working quickly, they got the man on a gurney, and checking his vitals. It looked like he was going to make it.
Jeff awoke the next day, his mother by his side.
"Jeff, how ya doin'?" Sheriff John Dallenck asked.
"I'm alright Sheriff," Jeff said, calmly, thankfully.
"Oh just leave my baby alone!" Jeff's mother, Virginia, snipped at Dallenck.
"Sorry ma'am. But, you know I've gotta ask questions," Sheriff John replied woefully. "Now Jeff, can you tell me what happened?"
Virginia squeeze Jeff's hand and gave him a motherly scorn that only Jeff could appreciate at this time. She'd already heard the story when Jeff woke up some two hours earlier after being told that Rob didn't make it. He's already mourned for his friend.
"It's alright mama," Jeff reassured her.
"Huh, dunno if you'll believe me, Sheriff, but I was saved," Jeff started off, as Dallenck looked puzzeled. "Yeah," Jeff laughed awkwardly, "Rob and I were drivin' and I saw a deer in the road and cut my wheel, after that, I don't remember much. A black guy in a suit brought me to the hospital."
"A black man? You were saved by a black man?" Sheriff Dallenck laughed heartily. "I just as much woulda rather died there!"
"Well I'm here and I'm breathin'! So you shut the fuck up Johnny!" Jeff angerliy retorted.
"Well, then boy, how much did you drink last night?" the Sheriff questioned quickly.
"Enough...." Jeff trailed off, realizing now what might be.
"I reckon you watch tounge then, you got it?" Dallenck said, calmingly. "Now, do you remember this man's name?"
"No, no. Just, he wore, just what he wore. A black suit," Jeff responded using what was left of his memory of last night.
"Anything else, Jefferson?" Virginia pushed.
"YEAH! He was an angel. He saved my life," Jeff boasted proudly.
Sheriff Dallenck looked puzzled, his jaw agape. He blinked twice, as though trying to compute what Jeff just said.
"Well then, I guess we don't need to do a search for him, do we?" Dallenck asked, sarcastically.
"I dunno, Sheriff," Jeff said, sensing Sheriff Dallenck's disbelief. "I suppose I should get some rest."
With that, Sheriff Dallenck turned and walked out of the hospital room. Virginia gave Jeff a kiss on the head and made her way to the door as well. Jeff closed his eyes and went to sleep.
The events over the years that passed showed that Jefferson Alpeck was a changed man. He discontinued his pledge with the Ku Klux Klan. He became a pastor at the local church, preaching togetherness and brotherhood. He worked with the poor in the area, working to get them jobs, living quarters - sometimes his own couch, much to the dismay of his wife - and spending time with them.
He had two children, two boys. The life that he had up until he was 23 was forever gone.
It was a warm Sunday evening in the late-Southern summer. Jeff was inside, getting the kids cleaned up for the picnic dinner they were hosting for members of the church later that night.
A knock on the door sent Jeff's wife, Amy, scurrying from the living room to answer the door, thinking that some of the guests were early. As she swung the door open, she saw a man she'd never seen before.
He stood about 5'10" and 170 pounds, much smaller than Jeff's 6'4" and 245 pound frame. He was a black man wearing a black suit, black tie, a white shirt, black shoes and a black fedora.
"Hi, you must be Amy, Jeff's wife?" the man asked.
"Yes, I am, how can I help you?" she responded.
"Well, could ya do me a favor and let him know that his old friend Donald is hear," the man said, with a smile on his face. "I've come for his repayment."
"Sure, just a minute...." she trailed off as she made her way to the kitchen.
"Jeff, hon, you've got a visitor, a man named Donald," Amy said.
Jeff's eyes went wide, hearing the name of the man he hadn't seen in 20 years, "Oh my!"
"What sweetie, are you OK," Amy asked, seeing Jeff turn a pale white.
"That's my angel," Jeff gulped down. Amy had heard the story multiple times; it was a staple in Jeff's sermon.
Jeff quickly darted to the front door to see the man he wished to lay eyes on. He opened the door, and Donald looked as though he hadn't aged a day in those 20 years.
"Jeff, mind if we have a word?" Donald asked.
"No, not at all, won't you please come inside my home?" Jeff offered.
"It's quite alright, if you'll just step outside," Donald countered.
Jeff didn't ask, but rather stepped outside. There, in the drive way was the Cadillac DeVille, with someone in the passenger seat. "Why don't you invite your friend in?"
"He's not my friend, Jeff, he's yours."
"Well, who is he?" Jeff asked, unsure of who could be with the man in the black suit.
"We'll find out soon enough, Jefferson."
The man in the black suit smirked, and the back door of the car opened and a young girl no older than 15 or so, went running across Jeff's front yard, wearing a smile that haunted Jeff.
Abigail Reed was back.
Chills ran all over Jefferson's body as he watched her run off into the setting sun. Gone, into the dusk.
He looked back over to the car, and began to recognize the man in the passenger's seat. His best friend was dead - 20 years now, yet, there he was, riding with the man in the black suit.
"Oh my lord," Jeff mumbled.
"Your lord ain't going to save you son. Now, let's get in and we'll be on our way," said the man in the black suit.
"There must be something I can give you, something I can do" Jeff pleaded.
"I'm not in the business of making second deals."
"Second deals?" Jeff questioned.
"You heard me," the man in the black suit clearly becoming angry, said.
"Now wait! Wait just a gosh darn minute!" Jeff yelled, nervously.
"Come hell or high water, you're getting in that car with me. And wouldn't you know it, there's a storm a brewin'."
Just a few moments later, Amy came out the front door to see what the problem was.
"Jeff, is there a problem," she asked as she stepped outside to see her husband gone, "JEFF!"
Off in the distance she saw the taillights of the black DeVille, driving into the sunset as the rain began to fall.
It was dark. The moon light scattered in the tree branches as Jeff and Rob made their way down a back country road that their 1989 Chevy pick-up was guiding them down - a road they've traveled so many times before.
Only this time it was different.
"Well folks," a voice crackled on the radio, "it looks like we got ourselves that '20 Year Storm,' so stay inside, hunker down and let some good ole southern boys make ya'll feel at ease."
Lynyrd Skynyrd's "That Smell," blared from the speakers in the rusty cab of the truck.
The rain came down in buckets, no lightning but enough thunder to set off the dog barks.
Jeff and Rob weren't you're average buddies. Jeff, short for Jefferson Alpeck, and Rob, short for Robert L. Johnson were named after southern Civil War heroes – some 240 years after the war – and just like those that fought in the Civil War, Jeff and Rob upheld the belief that they were created better than others. They were part of the brethren known as the Ku Klux Klan.
In most areas they'd be wanted for murder, but here, they're just some of the "good ole boys." They've never been arrested or questioned for the murder they committed some four years ago.
Her name was Abigail Reed, a 14-year-old honor student. Her crime – being black.
Abigail was walking home one late summer evening from her cousin's house when Jeff and Rob drove up on her.
Reeking of moonshine, they began harassing her as their trusty pick-up truck crept along side her now quickening pace.
She'd seen this truck before. Over two hills and across Johnson's Bridge, in the corn fields where they burned crosses. She's seen the two ghost men before, too. But, not their faces. She remembered what her mother told her; repeatedly.
"Don't look at 'em! Don't you talk to 'em! You just get on home where you'll be safe!"
"Whatcha doin?" the men in the white hoods asked her.
She didn't dignify them with a response, but instead, began jogging towards her destination – home.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to ya! Ya fuckin' bitch!" Rob screamed out.
Abigail began a full sprint along the road while Rob's foot hardly pressed on the gas pedal. Within a matter of seconds Rob stomped on his gas pedal and cut off the would be path of Abigail. Dust kicked up the setting sun sky. To the average person seeing this, they would've assumed a truck had blown out a tire.
Screaming, she came to a stop. But, like most areas in their rural county, there was no one to hear her screams.
The two ghosts jumped out of the cab of the truck and swooped up a kicking and feisty Abigail.
"AH! Bitch scratched me!" Jeff hollered, and with that, slapped her with his big heavy farming hand. It hit Abigail with a force she's never felt. The impact caused her to hit her head on the side of the truck bed, knocking her out.
They tossed her motionless body into the bed and hopped into the cab. They drove for what felt like hours, never removing their masks - their protection.
The truck finally rolled to a stop in the middle of a field coming to the start of a small forest. Getting out, they grabbed Abigail's body, which remained motionless.
Jeff got out of the passenger's side, lifting up his hood, and took a big swig out of the bottle, and grabbed the rope sitting in the middle of the cab. Rob hopped out of the driver's side and grabbed the limp body that had only moved around due to his fanatic driving.
He tossed her over his shoulder like a potato sack as the three of them made their way into the woods. They stumbled some 20 feet in before giving up and throwing her down against a tree.
"Gimme that rope!" hollered Rob, as he snatched the rope from Jeff's hands like a dog feeding on table scraps at a steak house. Jeff walked around to the other side of the tree and waited for Rob to pass the rope around.
Within a matter of moments, Abigail Reed was tied up and still unconscious.
"Let the fuggin' varmints eat 'er," Rob growled out.
"Shoot, ain't no one gonna miss her anyway," said Jeff, agreeing with Rob's thought to keep her there.
They turned and took their time getting back to the truck, but once there, realized something was wrong.
"Where the fugg is your mask, ya dumbshit?" Rob questioned.
"Ah fuck!" Jeff said, grabbing at his head, realizing that it had fallen off.
"Lets go back. You know you's a retard right?" Rob joked towards his disgruntled friend.
"Yeah, yeah, shut up!" Jeff snarled back.
Coming back to the tree where they left Abigail, Jeff saw his hood. He stepped over, bent down and picked it up. While doing so, keeping his eyes glued on Abigail.
She stared right back, a look of questioning horror.
She knew the man.
Jefferson Alpeck.
He lived just around the corner from her.
"Oh fuck! She's up! Oh fuck, she's up!" Jeff hollered.
"WHAT?" yelled Rob.
"She looked right at me. SHE' FUCKIN' AWAKE"
"Sun-uh-bitch. Looks like we gots-ta do somethin' here."
"Yeah, yeah we do," Jeff said with a eyebrow raise and a devilish smirk across his face.
He bent down and with one hand, gripped her neck while looking her right in the eye, the moonlight providing the only light he needed to make sure he did the job.
"She ain't gonna tell no one," Jeff said reassuringly as her body went limp and stopped breathing.
"You a sick sun-uh-bitch," Rob laughingly replied.
"Yeah," Jeff sheepishly replied, keeping his head down like a five-year-old getting in trouble for spilling a glass of water.
"Suppose we better get the fugg outta here."
Jeff bent down and grabbed his mask and the two made their way back to the truck.
The rain was pouring as the two made their way down the road, the same one they traveled down with Abigail Reed in their truck bed, four years ago. This time though, they were on their way to a rally as they could see the orange in the sky in the distance, even with the rain coming down like it does only once every 20-years.
Abigail Reed was the last thing on their mind as they saw headlights coming at them. Not thinking anything of it, Jeff cut to the middle of the road, a little game of chicken.
Just as doing so, he saw a girl run across the road.
Abigail Reed stopped in the headlights, starring at Jeff and Rob.
"What the?" Rob slowly let out as Jeff cut the wheel hard to the right, trying to avoid the ghost in their past.
The truck came to a halt in a row of trees on the right side of the road.
The headlights of the car slowed and came to a stop.
A black man, wearing a black suit, black tie, black shoes, a white shirt, and a black fedora stepped out of the driver's seat of his black 1972 Cadillac DeVille. A well dressed man and a very nice car for such a poor area.
He walked slowly towards the disaster.
"Oh my," he said aloud as he came to the body of Rob, laying in the road, face down. He was thrown out of the windshield of the truck, "I don't think you made it."
He made his way to the truck. Jeff, sitting there, his head smashed against the steering wheel, but still hanging on for life.
"Well Jefferson, looks like you've got yourself a problem," said the man, calmly. Too calmly for such an accident as this.
"Please mister, please save me," Jeff cried out. Tears rolling down his cheeks, next to the blood that came from his forehead on down. "Did ya see that girl? Oh, no, did ya see her?"
"No, there's no girl out here but, I suppose you'll have to do me a favor."
"Yeah, yeah, OK, please just. OH GOD!" Jeff bellowed out.
"I'm not God," laughed the man in the black suit, "but, I do reckon it's time for you to be a changin' your ways now, son."
Jeff nodded then fell into unconsciousness.
The man pulled Jeff from the wreckage and carried him over to his car and put him into the back seat.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Jeff asked the man questions.
"Who are you?"
"The name is Donald. They call me Black Donald, on account of me always wearing black suits," said Donald, the man in the black suit.
His head pounding, Jeff went back under.
He came back a few minutes later.
"Where are you takin' me?"
"Why, to the hospital, son. You need some help."
"No, you can't take me there, I'm wearing my robe," Jeff cried out. "They'll see me and know who I am."
"Yes, but that's not who you are anymore. Now get some rest, you need it."
The black DeVille pulled up to the county hospital and the car came to a stop. There was no one around. Donald stepped out of the car, and walked around, the rain still pouring down as lightning and thunder rolled through the black night. He opened the door and woke Jeff.
"Let's go, we're here and you'll be alright."
Jeff didn't respond but the look of thanks in his eyes was enough for the man in the black suit.
Donald helped Jeff up the ramp into the hospital. The nurse had her head down as the two men walked in. A black man and a white man wearing the cloak of the KKK. A site that surely would've given the young nurse a heart attack.
He sat Jeff down in a chair, turned and headed for the door.
"Wait, how can I thank you?" Jeff asked.
"You'll see, eventually," said the man in the black suit as he walked back out the door.
The nurse looking up to see Jeff, blood soaked, screamed. She never heard the two men come in, nor saw them.
Hearing the nurse's scream, the night shift doctor and several nurses came running into the waiting room.
Working quickly, they got the man on a gurney, and checking his vitals. It looked like he was going to make it.
Jeff awoke the next day, his mother by his side.
"Jeff, how ya doin'?" Sheriff John Dallenck asked.
"I'm alright Sheriff," Jeff said, calmly, thankfully.
"Oh just leave my baby alone!" Jeff's mother, Virginia, snipped at Dallenck.
"Sorry ma'am. But, you know I've gotta ask questions," Sheriff John replied woefully. "Now Jeff, can you tell me what happened?"
Virginia squeeze Jeff's hand and gave him a motherly scorn that only Jeff could appreciate at this time. She'd already heard the story when Jeff woke up some two hours earlier after being told that Rob didn't make it. He's already mourned for his friend.
"It's alright mama," Jeff reassured her.
"Huh, dunno if you'll believe me, Sheriff, but I was saved," Jeff started off, as Dallenck looked puzzeled. "Yeah," Jeff laughed awkwardly, "Rob and I were drivin' and I saw a deer in the road and cut my wheel, after that, I don't remember much. A black guy in a suit brought me to the hospital."
"A black man? You were saved by a black man?" Sheriff Dallenck laughed heartily. "I just as much woulda rather died there!"
"Well I'm here and I'm breathin'! So you shut the fuck up Johnny!" Jeff angerliy retorted.
"Well, then boy, how much did you drink last night?" the Sheriff questioned quickly.
"Enough...." Jeff trailed off, realizing now what might be.
"I reckon you watch tounge then, you got it?" Dallenck said, calmingly. "Now, do you remember this man's name?"
"No, no. Just, he wore, just what he wore. A black suit," Jeff responded using what was left of his memory of last night.
"Anything else, Jefferson?" Virginia pushed.
"YEAH! He was an angel. He saved my life," Jeff boasted proudly.
Sheriff Dallenck looked puzzled, his jaw agape. He blinked twice, as though trying to compute what Jeff just said.
"Well then, I guess we don't need to do a search for him, do we?" Dallenck asked, sarcastically.
"I dunno, Sheriff," Jeff said, sensing Sheriff Dallenck's disbelief. "I suppose I should get some rest."
With that, Sheriff Dallenck turned and walked out of the hospital room. Virginia gave Jeff a kiss on the head and made her way to the door as well. Jeff closed his eyes and went to sleep.
The events over the years that passed showed that Jefferson Alpeck was a changed man. He discontinued his pledge with the Ku Klux Klan. He became a pastor at the local church, preaching togetherness and brotherhood. He worked with the poor in the area, working to get them jobs, living quarters - sometimes his own couch, much to the dismay of his wife - and spending time with them.
He had two children, two boys. The life that he had up until he was 23 was forever gone.
It was a warm Sunday evening in the late-Southern summer. Jeff was inside, getting the kids cleaned up for the picnic dinner they were hosting for members of the church later that night.
A knock on the door sent Jeff's wife, Amy, scurrying from the living room to answer the door, thinking that some of the guests were early. As she swung the door open, she saw a man she'd never seen before.
He stood about 5'10" and 170 pounds, much smaller than Jeff's 6'4" and 245 pound frame. He was a black man wearing a black suit, black tie, a white shirt, black shoes and a black fedora.
"Hi, you must be Amy, Jeff's wife?" the man asked.
"Yes, I am, how can I help you?" she responded.
"Well, could ya do me a favor and let him know that his old friend Donald is hear," the man said, with a smile on his face. "I've come for his repayment."
"Sure, just a minute...." she trailed off as she made her way to the kitchen.
"Jeff, hon, you've got a visitor, a man named Donald," Amy said.
Jeff's eyes went wide, hearing the name of the man he hadn't seen in 20 years, "Oh my!"
"What sweetie, are you OK," Amy asked, seeing Jeff turn a pale white.
"That's my angel," Jeff gulped down. Amy had heard the story multiple times; it was a staple in Jeff's sermon.
Jeff quickly darted to the front door to see the man he wished to lay eyes on. He opened the door, and Donald looked as though he hadn't aged a day in those 20 years.
"Jeff, mind if we have a word?" Donald asked.
"No, not at all, won't you please come inside my home?" Jeff offered.
"It's quite alright, if you'll just step outside," Donald countered.
Jeff didn't ask, but rather stepped outside. There, in the drive way was the Cadillac DeVille, with someone in the passenger seat. "Why don't you invite your friend in?"
"He's not my friend, Jeff, he's yours."
"Well, who is he?" Jeff asked, unsure of who could be with the man in the black suit.
"We'll find out soon enough, Jefferson."
The man in the black suit smirked, and the back door of the car opened and a young girl no older than 15 or so, went running across Jeff's front yard, wearing a smile that haunted Jeff.
Abigail Reed was back.
Chills ran all over Jefferson's body as he watched her run off into the setting sun. Gone, into the dusk.
He looked back over to the car, and began to recognize the man in the passenger's seat. His best friend was dead - 20 years now, yet, there he was, riding with the man in the black suit.
"Oh my lord," Jeff mumbled.
"Your lord ain't going to save you son. Now, let's get in and we'll be on our way," said the man in the black suit.
"There must be something I can give you, something I can do" Jeff pleaded.
"I'm not in the business of making second deals."
"Second deals?" Jeff questioned.
"You heard me," the man in the black suit clearly becoming angry, said.
"Now wait! Wait just a gosh darn minute!" Jeff yelled, nervously.
"Come hell or high water, you're getting in that car with me. And wouldn't you know it, there's a storm a brewin'."
Just a few moments later, Amy came out the front door to see what the problem was.
"Jeff, is there a problem," she asked as she stepped outside to see her husband gone, "JEFF!"
Off in the distance she saw the taillights of the black DeVille, driving into the sunset as the rain began to fall.
The Man From Mars
Written Sunday, October 12, 2008
Let me preface this by saying: I'm not like you.
You wouldn't know it if you saw me walking down the street, or driving a car. Eating or sleeping.
The only way you'd know it, is if you knew how long I've been on your planet for.
I've watched the pyramids being built. World Wars, jungle wars, and revolutionary wars. I've seen your gods walk the planet (yes, they've all been here at least once). I watched everything from fire being discovered to computer technology.
If you're wondering how I've done all this, remember, I'm not like you.
I was born in a time long, long ago. In a place not too far from here. Ok, ok, by your measures, it's only a few hundred light years. Which, if you consider how long I've been living, is really only a month or so based on Earth's calendar.
Now, you may be wondering why I'm here. I'm a scientist, much like you have here. I would be called an anthropologist if I were from Earth, but instead, I'm just a scientist. I was sent here to study the evolution of this new planet (well, when we saw it created; it's not new anymore).
The unfortunate thing for you people on Earth is that every planet I've gone and studied has been destroyed. Oh, don't get upset at me. I'm not one of your gods or some monster (we look the same as you) sent to destroy planets, but rather we already know if a planet will survive.
So, I guess the best way to describe to describe me is a "watcher of destruction." Well, that's what it says on my business card. I've watched several thousands of planets destroy themselves. Wars and pollution are always the top causes. Only once, have I seen over population become a cause for a planet's destruction. But, my people were able to branch out and now live on a dozen or so planets, with our original home planet now something more of a novelty than a livable planet.
Earth has had quite a few wars, based on: money, ego, land, and a new one, oil. But, just the same, I suppose that oil fits in with the others. I mean, it's a thing. There's a lot of it on Earth (remember, I'm a scientist) and a lot of ways to make it, in a lab. But, I'm not here to save a planet, no, only to take notes and learn. After I'm done studying a planet (I'm finished once it's gone) I return home and teach what I've learned, so that our planets' will not follow in the same fate as others.
On our planets, we treat others with respect. You know the saying, "treat others as you would like to be treated." But, my personal favorite is "you're only as strong as your weakest link." We don't have wars. We don't have starvation, or unemployment (but when you've got that many planets it's tough to not find work). Murder is something that my people only know of because of my notes that are constantly streamed to them.
I've seen some strange things on this planet. My personal favorite is the treatment of animals. One group of people worships cows. Another one eats them. But the one that eats them, worships cats and dogs (if you don't, then why do they live in your house and eat your food and sleep in your bed?). Then there's another that eats cats and dogs. Needless to say, that made the front page on almost every newspaper in our galaxy (the first time ever, my mother was proud - and yes, we have parents).
Love is another. I find it strange, as I've noted several times in my notes, that Earthlings don't know who their supposed to be with. They have multiple partners and often split with those partners, before moving on to another...much in the way a parasite works. Sex, it seems is a major focal point in several cultures, yet in ours it's hardly important enough to even mention, aside from the fact that people here are obsessed with it. Don't get me wrong, I've had sex. A lot of sex, and I enjoy it. But, when you've been around since the dawn of man kind, you've got the opportunity for a lot sex. I'm not supposed to be with anyone here. Remember? I'm not from here.
I wouldn't worry too much about the pollution problem that you claim to have. Even if Los Angeles, California, of the United States of America had the cleanest air in the world, you would all still live. Besides, your wars will kill you off before some pollution factor will.
In the 1950's through the 1960's I really thought I was getting ready to leave. The Cold War between the then Soviet Union and the United States had all of the ego for a globally destructive war. But, I'm still here. The newest war lord is an American President named George Bush. It's amazing that you people think that this man will cause World War III. I can't tell you a lot, but based on my research of the other planets and my notes on this one, the beginning of the planet's destruction will begin with another American Civil War. I can't tell you when, simply because I don't know. I can't tell the future, merely it's a guesstimate (a very good one, I'm not paid to be wrong). But, it won't be anytime soon.
The world's governments have no idea I exist. If they did, it would cause a lot of problems. This is why I can't be found. I live a simple life in a major metropolis and have a dog. I find it funny that I own what so many people love, yet I only do it to fit in. I can never get married and I move once every three to five years. I can't stick around too long, people will notice that I don't age the same as them. Questions would be asked and people wouldn't be ready for the answers.
If I was asked where I'd rank Earth with the planets I've studied, it would fall somewhere in the top 25%. There've been flashes of brilliance, but there've been too many problems for Earth to be any higher.
Even if I wanted to, I still couldn't save Earth from Earthlings. Your planet's future has already been decided, regardless of what's done to save it. I've enjoyed my time here and I will continue to, until my work is done.
You won't know I was here, until I'm gone.
Let me preface this by saying: I'm not like you.
You wouldn't know it if you saw me walking down the street, or driving a car. Eating or sleeping.
The only way you'd know it, is if you knew how long I've been on your planet for.
I've watched the pyramids being built. World Wars, jungle wars, and revolutionary wars. I've seen your gods walk the planet (yes, they've all been here at least once). I watched everything from fire being discovered to computer technology.
If you're wondering how I've done all this, remember, I'm not like you.
I was born in a time long, long ago. In a place not too far from here. Ok, ok, by your measures, it's only a few hundred light years. Which, if you consider how long I've been living, is really only a month or so based on Earth's calendar.
Now, you may be wondering why I'm here. I'm a scientist, much like you have here. I would be called an anthropologist if I were from Earth, but instead, I'm just a scientist. I was sent here to study the evolution of this new planet (well, when we saw it created; it's not new anymore).
The unfortunate thing for you people on Earth is that every planet I've gone and studied has been destroyed. Oh, don't get upset at me. I'm not one of your gods or some monster (we look the same as you) sent to destroy planets, but rather we already know if a planet will survive.
So, I guess the best way to describe to describe me is a "watcher of destruction." Well, that's what it says on my business card. I've watched several thousands of planets destroy themselves. Wars and pollution are always the top causes. Only once, have I seen over population become a cause for a planet's destruction. But, my people were able to branch out and now live on a dozen or so planets, with our original home planet now something more of a novelty than a livable planet.
Earth has had quite a few wars, based on: money, ego, land, and a new one, oil. But, just the same, I suppose that oil fits in with the others. I mean, it's a thing. There's a lot of it on Earth (remember, I'm a scientist) and a lot of ways to make it, in a lab. But, I'm not here to save a planet, no, only to take notes and learn. After I'm done studying a planet (I'm finished once it's gone) I return home and teach what I've learned, so that our planets' will not follow in the same fate as others.
On our planets, we treat others with respect. You know the saying, "treat others as you would like to be treated." But, my personal favorite is "you're only as strong as your weakest link." We don't have wars. We don't have starvation, or unemployment (but when you've got that many planets it's tough to not find work). Murder is something that my people only know of because of my notes that are constantly streamed to them.
I've seen some strange things on this planet. My personal favorite is the treatment of animals. One group of people worships cows. Another one eats them. But the one that eats them, worships cats and dogs (if you don't, then why do they live in your house and eat your food and sleep in your bed?). Then there's another that eats cats and dogs. Needless to say, that made the front page on almost every newspaper in our galaxy (the first time ever, my mother was proud - and yes, we have parents).
Love is another. I find it strange, as I've noted several times in my notes, that Earthlings don't know who their supposed to be with. They have multiple partners and often split with those partners, before moving on to another...much in the way a parasite works. Sex, it seems is a major focal point in several cultures, yet in ours it's hardly important enough to even mention, aside from the fact that people here are obsessed with it. Don't get me wrong, I've had sex. A lot of sex, and I enjoy it. But, when you've been around since the dawn of man kind, you've got the opportunity for a lot sex. I'm not supposed to be with anyone here. Remember? I'm not from here.
I wouldn't worry too much about the pollution problem that you claim to have. Even if Los Angeles, California, of the United States of America had the cleanest air in the world, you would all still live. Besides, your wars will kill you off before some pollution factor will.
In the 1950's through the 1960's I really thought I was getting ready to leave. The Cold War between the then Soviet Union and the United States had all of the ego for a globally destructive war. But, I'm still here. The newest war lord is an American President named George Bush. It's amazing that you people think that this man will cause World War III. I can't tell you a lot, but based on my research of the other planets and my notes on this one, the beginning of the planet's destruction will begin with another American Civil War. I can't tell you when, simply because I don't know. I can't tell the future, merely it's a guesstimate (a very good one, I'm not paid to be wrong). But, it won't be anytime soon.
The world's governments have no idea I exist. If they did, it would cause a lot of problems. This is why I can't be found. I live a simple life in a major metropolis and have a dog. I find it funny that I own what so many people love, yet I only do it to fit in. I can never get married and I move once every three to five years. I can't stick around too long, people will notice that I don't age the same as them. Questions would be asked and people wouldn't be ready for the answers.
If I was asked where I'd rank Earth with the planets I've studied, it would fall somewhere in the top 25%. There've been flashes of brilliance, but there've been too many problems for Earth to be any higher.
Even if I wanted to, I still couldn't save Earth from Earthlings. Your planet's future has already been decided, regardless of what's done to save it. I've enjoyed my time here and I will continue to, until my work is done.
You won't know I was here, until I'm gone.
The Engagement Ring
Written Sunday, October 5, 2008
Disgruntled, he throws his blue linen sheet to the ground and whacks the alarm with the impatience of a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum.
6:45 AM
“Another day, another dollar,” he says as he looks down at his feet as he places them on a cool hardwood floor.
He gets up, heads to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he peers inside, “God, I need to go shopping,” is all he can say to himself as he admires a half-empty bottle of ketchup sitting next to a three day old gallon of milk.
He opens the carton, sniffs, and takes a sip. This has been his morning ritual for four days now, maybe nine. It feels like weeks though, since he and Debbie, his girlfriend of three years, got into a very heated argument that sent her running out the door, a suitcase jam packed and tears a plenty pouring out her eyes. He hasn’t talked to her since, but still checks his cell phone almost religiously to see if she’s called.
She has yet to.
Looking like he’s attempting to grow a beard – though it’s just a matter of how lazy he can possibly be – he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. “Nah, not today,” Steve says stroking the hair on his chin, as though there’s someone else listening, or caring. He leans over and turns on the water for the shower. While waiting for the water to warm-up, he grinds a toothbrush against his teeth, quickly spitting out the toothpaste without rinsing.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s dressed and headed out the door, ready to catch the #9 bus to Jackson Street. His car was his girlfriend’s car. He’s now a regular at stop #4 on Williamsburg Court. At least for this week.
Getting on, he drops a handful of coins into the slot before taking a seat towards the back – a window seat, smiling to the dozen or so people on the bus before him, but not meaning the smile he wears.
12 stops later and he’s squeezing by the fifty or so people now on the bus, attempting to get off at Jackson. Neither big nor small, average – like he’s always been, Steve slides between the standers towards the front and gets off.
He quickly jogs across the two lanes of early morning traffic and hurries up the stairs into his office building. He’s quickly stopped in his steps by two small children – coming from the company’s daycare center – sprinting down the hallway and making a sharp turn towards the basement stairs.
Steve throws his arms out in his best traffic cop imitation. “STOP!”
The two children come to a sudden halt, as though they were running from the police.
“Now, just where do you think you’re going?” Steve questions.
“Shhhh!” Nicholas, the older of the two boys, says as he holds up his pointer over his mouth.
“We’re playing hide-and-go-seek” Johnny screams out, just as Nicholas covers up his mouth as well.
“Shhhh!”
“Well, OK, but hold on, you’ve gotta pay the toll to get down the stairs,” says Steve as he pulls out a few loose coins – his bus fare for the evening ride home – and hands it to the two boys. “Now, give this to the boss man and he’ll let you pass.”
“Thanks Steve,” the boys whisper simultaneously, as Steve smiles at them. It’ll probably be one of the few times he really smiles today, and was the first time in quite a while.
Quickly, they scamper off down the stairs and into the basement halls. The basement had undergone renovations, going from several janitors’ closets to an adequate weight room and a few empty offices that have yet to be filled by potential employees. Steve’s applied twice to move down to one of the offices.
“Good morning Jean,” he says as he bounces up the stairs from the lobby to the receptionist’s desk.
“Mr. Barlow, how are you? Better, I hope?” Jean asks, with a glint of hope in her voice.
“I’m breathing,” he replies as he heads towards his office.
Steve, a writer for City Trends – a magazine highlighting the city’s up and coming arts scene – walks into his office, which is littered with a few awards, thumb-tacked to the wall. Pictures of him and Debbie in their better days, and a calendar and a red circle drawn around the last three days of the month, when he and Deb – as he called her – were supposed to head upstate to visit her parents at their cottage on the lake. He was going to propose.
Now, that feels like a dream, as he takes a seat at his computer. He opens his most recent file, a piece on an up and coming band from the south-suburbs that brings to mind the sounds of fuzz-ridden guitars and howling vocals. Steve’s favorite band.
The document is blank. He doesn’t worry. He hasn’t typed anything on it. No notes. No ideas. No sentences. No interview dates. Just blank. He wouldn’t call it writer’s block. He’d have to write something first for it to be writer’s block.
“How’s it coming?” His boss, Alenn asks.
“Oh, it’s great!” Steve mocks condescendingly towards his boss. His boss doesn’t pick it up.
“Two days” his boss replies as he walks out.
“Gotcha!”
He looks at the clock; it’s already 11:45 AM. Almost lunch, and still nothing. It’s not that he strives under a looming deadline, quite the opposite really. He’s normally got his work in almost a week before it’s due. The editors love him.
The familiar sound of the fire alarm goes off. Is it Tuesday? Sarah normally burns her popcorn at 2 o’clock on Tuesdays. He looks at the calendar. It’s Monday. “Odd,” he thinks to himself as he slowly pushes himself away from his computer and stands up out of his chair.
He steps to the door and opens it.
“HOLY SHIT!” Steve screams out as the hallway is billowing with dark heavy smoke. The fire alarms are all going full blast.
“Hello?” a voice calls in the distance.
“HEY! HEY! CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Steve shouts out.
There’s no response. He’s in the back of the office and it looks like he’ll have to go straight through the darkness to get out the front door. There’s no back door, which as it turns out, is a pretty stupid idea.
He pulls his shirt up over his mouth and nose and hits the floor. It’s the same routine he was taught in elementary school. He starts crawling, stopping every few feet to cough up his lungs. His eyes are burning from the smoke as he can hardly breathe. As he crawls out, he notices that there’s no one else joining him in his quest to get out of the building that’s surely to go up in flames at any moment.
Steve, not a religious man, begins to pray as he inches his way closer and closer to clean air. Finally, he can see the front door. Everyone is already out, or so it looks. But, at this point, it’s good enough for him. He slides down the stairs, past Jean’s desk, as the front fire alarm rings loudly, giving Steve an almost sudden migraine.
“HEEEELLLLPPPP!” A voice screams from down stairs – the basement.
“Oh NO!” Steve musters up enough oxygen to gasp out.
“The kids, the kids are down stairs,” Steve says to himself.
He turns and looks behind him, flames coming from the back of the building, no doubt burning into what once was his sanctuary. The ring, sitting in the top drawer of his desk, melted by now. He knew that he didn’t have an option – he was gonna make his way down the stairs into the basement.
“I’M COMING! I’M COMING! YOU’RE OK!” Steve bellowed down the stairs into the black hallway in the basement.
There was no response, again. He can’t breathe. Did he really hear the kids? Had they already been pulled out by someone else? Debbie, what if I don’t make it, will she be OK? How much longer before this all goes? Thousands of questions ran through his mind in the few seconds that it took to plunge his body into the darkness of the smoke inferno basement.
He stuttered to his feet, bent over at the waist, arms out stretched, trying to feel his way around in the darkness. Calling their name with every breath he could recover, Steve’s mind raced faster than his heart. Palms dripping with cold sweat, panic began to set in. Where’s the basement door? Where am I? Where are they?
Seconds felt like minutes as he finally made it to the end of the hallway.
“Help,” a small voice squeaked out in the corner to Steve’s right. Reaching out he grabbed something. Unsure, he pulled his arm closer to him.
“Johnny!” Steve coughed out.
Johnny grunted, choking on the smoke that began to settle in his lungs.
“Johnny, where’s Nick? Where’s Nick? Johnny!”
Johnny pulled Steve into the corner where they were hiding. Nicholas was curled in a ball, breathing, barely.
Using the last of his strength, Steve grabbed Nicholas and Johnny, tucking each onto his hips, like a mother carrying two babies, squeezed them tight as he looked both ways trying to figure out where to go.
He fell to his knees. His eyes closed as the boys began to cough violently. He fell forward, the boys laid by his side. He looked up, one more time, hoping…
Light! He saw a light! He closed his eyes again, unable to maintain the oxygen intake needed to survive.
Air! A facemask…an oxygen machine! The firefighters. Steve gasped for the air he’d longed for. The boys. Are they OK? Where are the boys? He reached out and looked over. The firefighters had already begun to pull them out. Steve pulled himself up onto the shoulders of one of the firemen, Steve’s arm draped around him like a buddy carrying him out of a bar after a few too many.
The front doors opened. Greeting Steve were the paramedics and sunlight and the heat. The heat was beating onto Steve.
“Water!” Steve gasped as though it could’ve been his last word ever.
He leaned back against the closed doors of the ambulance taking deep breaths of oxygen from the air tank.
“STEVE! STEVE!” a young woman’s voice called out.
Jean?
Was it his mom?
Debbie!
“Oh, thank God!” he cried out as he looked over to see her running up.
But, she stopped at the stretcher – some seven feet away – looking down, she began to cry.
“Debbie, I’m here! Debbie, come here!” he called out.
She bent-over the stretcher, sobbing.
“What? Wait, how am I laying down? How am I laying down?” he demanded to know! He closed his eyes; blackness.
Debbie felt his hand, lifeless, there was something in his fist. She opened his fist and saw the ring. Hysterically, she began balling over Steve’s lifeless body, as they pulled a white sheet over him before loading him into the ambulance.
Steve Barlow was pronounced dead at the scene. He died in the basement, saving two boys who were sure to have suffered a fate just as similar as Steve’s, had it not been for him.
“Ah, God dammit!” The first words uttered out of Steve’s mouth on a hot, sticky late August morning as his alarm clock buzzes like a wild bird.
Disgruntled, he throws his blue linen sheet to the ground and whacks the alarm with the impatience of a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum.
6:45 AM
“Another day, another dollar,” he says as he looks down at his feet as he places them on a cool hardwood floor.
He gets up, heads to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he peers inside, “God, I need to go shopping,” is all he can say to himself as he admires a half-empty bottle of ketchup sitting next to a three day old gallon of milk.
He opens the carton, sniffs, and takes a sip. This has been his morning ritual for four days now, maybe nine. It feels like weeks though, since he and Debbie, his girlfriend of three years, got into a very heated argument that sent her running out the door, a suitcase jam packed and tears a plenty pouring out her eyes. He hasn’t talked to her since, but still checks his cell phone almost religiously to see if she’s called.
She has yet to.
Looking like he’s attempting to grow a beard – though it’s just a matter of how lazy he can possibly be – he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. “Nah, not today,” Steve says stroking the hair on his chin, as though there’s someone else listening, or caring. He leans over and turns on the water for the shower. While waiting for the water to warm-up, he grinds a toothbrush against his teeth, quickly spitting out the toothpaste without rinsing.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s dressed and headed out the door, ready to catch the #9 bus to Jackson Street. His car was his girlfriend’s car. He’s now a regular at stop #4 on Williamsburg Court. At least for this week.
Getting on, he drops a handful of coins into the slot before taking a seat towards the back – a window seat, smiling to the dozen or so people on the bus before him, but not meaning the smile he wears.
12 stops later and he’s squeezing by the fifty or so people now on the bus, attempting to get off at Jackson. Neither big nor small, average – like he’s always been, Steve slides between the standers towards the front and gets off.
He quickly jogs across the two lanes of early morning traffic and hurries up the stairs into his office building. He’s quickly stopped in his steps by two small children – coming from the company’s daycare center – sprinting down the hallway and making a sharp turn towards the basement stairs.
Steve throws his arms out in his best traffic cop imitation. “STOP!”
The two children come to a sudden halt, as though they were running from the police.
“Now, just where do you think you’re going?” Steve questions.
“Shhhh!” Nicholas, the older of the two boys, says as he holds up his pointer over his mouth.
“We’re playing hide-and-go-seek” Johnny screams out, just as Nicholas covers up his mouth as well.
“Shhhh!”
“Well, OK, but hold on, you’ve gotta pay the toll to get down the stairs,” says Steve as he pulls out a few loose coins – his bus fare for the evening ride home – and hands it to the two boys. “Now, give this to the boss man and he’ll let you pass.”
“Thanks Steve,” the boys whisper simultaneously, as Steve smiles at them. It’ll probably be one of the few times he really smiles today, and was the first time in quite a while.
Quickly, they scamper off down the stairs and into the basement halls. The basement had undergone renovations, going from several janitors’ closets to an adequate weight room and a few empty offices that have yet to be filled by potential employees. Steve’s applied twice to move down to one of the offices.
“Good morning Jean,” he says as he bounces up the stairs from the lobby to the receptionist’s desk.
“Mr. Barlow, how are you? Better, I hope?” Jean asks, with a glint of hope in her voice.
“I’m breathing,” he replies as he heads towards his office.
Steve, a writer for City Trends – a magazine highlighting the city’s up and coming arts scene – walks into his office, which is littered with a few awards, thumb-tacked to the wall. Pictures of him and Debbie in their better days, and a calendar and a red circle drawn around the last three days of the month, when he and Deb – as he called her – were supposed to head upstate to visit her parents at their cottage on the lake. He was going to propose.
Now, that feels like a dream, as he takes a seat at his computer. He opens his most recent file, a piece on an up and coming band from the south-suburbs that brings to mind the sounds of fuzz-ridden guitars and howling vocals. Steve’s favorite band.
The document is blank. He doesn’t worry. He hasn’t typed anything on it. No notes. No ideas. No sentences. No interview dates. Just blank. He wouldn’t call it writer’s block. He’d have to write something first for it to be writer’s block.
“How’s it coming?” His boss, Alenn asks.
“Oh, it’s great!” Steve mocks condescendingly towards his boss. His boss doesn’t pick it up.
“Two days” his boss replies as he walks out.
“Gotcha!”
He looks at the clock; it’s already 11:45 AM. Almost lunch, and still nothing. It’s not that he strives under a looming deadline, quite the opposite really. He’s normally got his work in almost a week before it’s due. The editors love him.
The familiar sound of the fire alarm goes off. Is it Tuesday? Sarah normally burns her popcorn at 2 o’clock on Tuesdays. He looks at the calendar. It’s Monday. “Odd,” he thinks to himself as he slowly pushes himself away from his computer and stands up out of his chair.
He steps to the door and opens it.
“HOLY SHIT!” Steve screams out as the hallway is billowing with dark heavy smoke. The fire alarms are all going full blast.
“Hello?” a voice calls in the distance.
“HEY! HEY! CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Steve shouts out.
There’s no response. He’s in the back of the office and it looks like he’ll have to go straight through the darkness to get out the front door. There’s no back door, which as it turns out, is a pretty stupid idea.
He pulls his shirt up over his mouth and nose and hits the floor. It’s the same routine he was taught in elementary school. He starts crawling, stopping every few feet to cough up his lungs. His eyes are burning from the smoke as he can hardly breathe. As he crawls out, he notices that there’s no one else joining him in his quest to get out of the building that’s surely to go up in flames at any moment.
Steve, not a religious man, begins to pray as he inches his way closer and closer to clean air. Finally, he can see the front door. Everyone is already out, or so it looks. But, at this point, it’s good enough for him. He slides down the stairs, past Jean’s desk, as the front fire alarm rings loudly, giving Steve an almost sudden migraine.
“HEEEELLLLPPPP!” A voice screams from down stairs – the basement.
“Oh NO!” Steve musters up enough oxygen to gasp out.
“The kids, the kids are down stairs,” Steve says to himself.
He turns and looks behind him, flames coming from the back of the building, no doubt burning into what once was his sanctuary. The ring, sitting in the top drawer of his desk, melted by now. He knew that he didn’t have an option – he was gonna make his way down the stairs into the basement.
“I’M COMING! I’M COMING! YOU’RE OK!” Steve bellowed down the stairs into the black hallway in the basement.
There was no response, again. He can’t breathe. Did he really hear the kids? Had they already been pulled out by someone else? Debbie, what if I don’t make it, will she be OK? How much longer before this all goes? Thousands of questions ran through his mind in the few seconds that it took to plunge his body into the darkness of the smoke inferno basement.
He stuttered to his feet, bent over at the waist, arms out stretched, trying to feel his way around in the darkness. Calling their name with every breath he could recover, Steve’s mind raced faster than his heart. Palms dripping with cold sweat, panic began to set in. Where’s the basement door? Where am I? Where are they?
Seconds felt like minutes as he finally made it to the end of the hallway.
“Help,” a small voice squeaked out in the corner to Steve’s right. Reaching out he grabbed something. Unsure, he pulled his arm closer to him.
“Johnny!” Steve coughed out.
Johnny grunted, choking on the smoke that began to settle in his lungs.
“Johnny, where’s Nick? Where’s Nick? Johnny!”
Johnny pulled Steve into the corner where they were hiding. Nicholas was curled in a ball, breathing, barely.
Using the last of his strength, Steve grabbed Nicholas and Johnny, tucking each onto his hips, like a mother carrying two babies, squeezed them tight as he looked both ways trying to figure out where to go.
He fell to his knees. His eyes closed as the boys began to cough violently. He fell forward, the boys laid by his side. He looked up, one more time, hoping…
Light! He saw a light! He closed his eyes again, unable to maintain the oxygen intake needed to survive.
Air! A facemask…an oxygen machine! The firefighters. Steve gasped for the air he’d longed for. The boys. Are they OK? Where are the boys? He reached out and looked over. The firefighters had already begun to pull them out. Steve pulled himself up onto the shoulders of one of the firemen, Steve’s arm draped around him like a buddy carrying him out of a bar after a few too many.
The front doors opened. Greeting Steve were the paramedics and sunlight and the heat. The heat was beating onto Steve.
“Water!” Steve gasped as though it could’ve been his last word ever.
He leaned back against the closed doors of the ambulance taking deep breaths of oxygen from the air tank.
“STEVE! STEVE!” a young woman’s voice called out.
Jean?
Was it his mom?
Debbie!
“Oh, thank God!” he cried out as he looked over to see her running up.
But, she stopped at the stretcher – some seven feet away – looking down, she began to cry.
“Debbie, I’m here! Debbie, come here!” he called out.
She bent-over the stretcher, sobbing.
“What? Wait, how am I laying down? How am I laying down?” he demanded to know! He closed his eyes; blackness.
Debbie felt his hand, lifeless, there was something in his fist. She opened his fist and saw the ring. Hysterically, she began balling over Steve’s lifeless body, as they pulled a white sheet over him before loading him into the ambulance.
Steve Barlow was pronounced dead at the scene. He died in the basement, saving two boys who were sure to have suffered a fate just as similar as Steve’s, had it not been for him.
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