Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  Sean never got into the history of that limp, but some folks said it was from being involved in the Belfast bombing spree back in seventy-two. Sean claimed those events were what helped put him on the “map,” so to speak. My grandpa used to say it was from being kicked by a mule when Sean was a teenager.

  It surprised everyone when Uncle Edmund produced a young pig from the backyard. All their drinking turned every other conversation into a weird pissing contest over who was better at doing menial, everyday tasks. Edmund claimed the pig was the runt from a recent litter and thought it would be a good idea to have my grandpa do the butchering as the guest of honor. They egged him on and shoved a blade into his hands—a litany of offenses against his manhood on their lips.

  “Any Shea would kill a pig as easy as he breathes,” I remember Edmund saying.

  “Shit, any Irishman worth his stone can do that,” Sean added.

  James was quiet. He was the scary one with the weird look in his eye. Always gave me the willies.

  So they let that poor pig loose and Grandpa went after it like a man possessed. Down the alleys near the house, across the pasture, and through throngs of sleeping cattle—like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. He should’ve cut back on the whiskey. His legs were wobbly, and I could swear he nearly put that knife into his own chest more than once.

  When my grandfather caught up to the exhausted pig, he scooped a hand under its snout and slipped the knife clumsily into its throat. The blade pierced flesh and that pig went into full on flight mode—took off like a rocket and straight onto the porch of Edmund’s house. I remember it screaming and bleeding everywhere—the side of the house, the fence, even Uncle Edmund. The only thing louder than the pig and my grandfather’s curses was the Shea boys busting their guts with laughter. By the time Grandpa caught the pig again and ended its misery, we were all laughing—even my mom.

  Three days later we ate enough pork to last us a lifetime. I told Liam late into the meal that all those pork pies he was huffing down were made of the poor little pink thing he watched get slaughtered nights before. He cried, and I laughed. My mom used a fancy brush to give me a spanking. Liam laughed while I pretended my mother did any real damage.

  Now, that’s the pig story most people—even Liam—hear.

  There’s a part of the story I always leave out.

  On the night he killed that pig, when everyone else had retired into the house, I was outside with my grandpa while he cleaned up. It was a little chilly, but the refreshing kind of chilly—kept you sharp and aware of everything. A short sleeve shirt and shorts were probably not the best choice, but I wasn’t uncomfortable.

  My grandfather’s cleaning got my attention. I straightened up and looked his way. “Pa, why weren’t you laughing?” I asked.

  He wiped his calloused hands on his pants. “Wasn’t funny.”

  “Uncles Ed, Sean, and Jimmy thought it was. So did Mom, well, after.” I sat cross legged on a wooden bench. Picked at a scab on my elbow.

  He nodded. “I suppose they did, boy, but then again, they weren’t the ones shedding blood tonight, were they?” His brows raised the way they did whenever he raised a counterpoint. A sight I was seeing more and more as I expressed my teenage dissention whenever I could.

  “Why does that matter?” I leaned back against the table. Crossed my arms the same way he would whenever he had a long discussion with his drinking buddies.

  He sat next to me and placed a hand on my shoulder—hard. “Bryan, one day you’ll understand that sometimes life puts you in a place where you do something wrong and while everything inside you tells you not to do it.”

  “So why not do what’s right? You’re always telling me that.”

  He smiled at that. “Yeah, I do, don’t I? Still, it’s more complicated as you find yourself getting older. You’ll end up in a place where you have a choice and the best one isn’t always the right one. Even for your kin.” There was a finger of whiskey left in a bottle left on the table. He picked it up and sucked it down greedily.

  “What if you’re doing it for the right reason?” I cocked my head to the side.

  Grandpa shrugged. Gave me a pat on the back. “Then it isn’t so bad, I guess. But sometimes you’ll still find yourself doing wrong for wrong. Be it for fun or an easier way out of a bad situation.”

  “What do you do then?”

  He looked away. “You deal with it. You face that mistake and concede that hell chose you to work its benefit.”

  “Then what?” I ignored his discomfort. Maybe if I were older, I would have taken the hint by then. I wanted an answer—a solution to this weird conversation we were having. To leave it open-ended—I don’t know—maybe I already smelled the stench of adulthood in a conversation like this and hoped to swing it back to black and white.

  He sighed. Kept his eyes on the bottle and ran a fingertip over the open lip. “You accept what you are and move on, Bryan.”

  In the distance I heard a shuffling in the brush—something my grandpa didn’t seem to notice. I turned my head toward it and I swear on my mother’s eyes I saw the very pig my grandpa had slaughtered—its throat red and glistening in the moonlight. The grass beneath its pale hooves shifted in the wind. Its eyes found me and watched. I watched back. Didn’t feel my grandfather’s hand leave my shoulder or hear him walk back into the house.

  I sat and watched a dead pig root into ground it couldn’t break. It stomped a hoof in frustration. Ignored the constant stream of dark life escaping from the jagged wound that ran from ear to ear. It turned its nose up at me and gave off a low-pitched oink, turned, and walked off into the brush. I lifted myself to sit on the clean table. Laid back and let the stars make me feel tiny again. Closed my eyes and listened to low wail of the banshees in the wind.

  End of the Night—Now

  6

  One of the perks of living in Riverdale—also known as the “nice” part of the Bronx—is the valet parking at my building. Never use it regularly, but hospital visits have a way of making me thirsty. While driving’s never been too difficult for me while drunk, I’ve never quite mastered maneuvering a car into a tight space. The last time I gave that a go, I lost my passenger side mirror. I know that the doorman tonight is Sal—the “cool” doorman—so I get a twenty-dollar bill out before I forget to tip him.

  I take slow, steady steps from the car and to my front entrance. Can’t shake the feeling I’m leaning to one side, so I compensate by leaning to the other. I know I went too far when my hip presses against the fancy wainscoting on the wall. Sal’s seated at a small wooden desk in the cramped hall that someone with a cute sense of humor decided to make a reception area. He nods and tips his cap to me. “Evening, Mr. Shea.” He forces a smile—least he can do for that tip.

  “Sal, my man.” I hand him that twenty. “Looking good, big guy.” Keep walking. Get to my elevator. Catch a car all by lonesome and slap the button marked eight. “You ready for this, Charlie?” I slur. He’s appeared by my side. He’s still blinking in and out like hazard lights. There’s a high whine in the air around me. It fades away as the elevator car is jerked upwards on its cable.

  Charlie says something, but it sounds like he’s whispering at the far end of a long hallway. So close. Maybe a little more liquor and something to eat will seal the deal.

  The elevator car’s mirrored on all sides. I see myself reflected into infinity, but Charlie’s flying solo. I unscrew the cap of my bottle and take a long sip. Nice burn to this stuff—honey finish—I can see why my grandpa loved it so much. Watch Charlie try to breathe on the mirrors as I finish off the bottle. Elevator stops. I leave the bottle of whiskey behind, in a corner of the elevator, as I walk into my hallway. It’s quiet as a grave. Wish I had lively neighbors—at least a handful of interesting people to talk to. Unfortunately, they stay locked away: anti-social and absorbed in their own little worlds. That’s the way it is in most of New York—especially the Bronx. We respect one another, but
we don’t trust each other. Hell, look at me, I’m a contract killer. My neighbors are right to avoid me.

  I lucked out when I leased this place. The leasing office ignored my fake credentials or was immensely receptive to the promise of five months up front—cash. Amazing the effect cash has on even the most rigid fellas. Five hundred-dollar bills will fold most. For the guy at the leasing office, it took six of them. It was a good fit for all of us, I lucked out and they got a quiet, unassuming white guy for a tenant. Let’s not make any bones about it. If I had a tan, no luck of the Irish would have helped me snag an apartment in this building. Racism is alive and well here.

  After a bottle of whiskey, the hall has a bad habit of leaning to the left, which is unfortunate because I had been leaning to the right to compensate earlier. Charlie’s rambling about something, but it’s sounding more and more like someone’s talking to me while I’m underwater. I want to turn to him, tell him it’s all going to be all right. I want to tell him he’ll be gone soon. Maybe he’ll see the light at the end of the tunnel. Have a chat with God. Then again, if he’s in my head, that sort of makes me God. Nah, those thoughts are way too deep for now. My stomach rumbles in complaint to the mostly liquid diet of the day. I need to fix that situation before I spend most of my night on the cold tile floor of my bathroom.

  Get to my apartment, unlock the door, and step in. I lock the door and dead bolt behind me. TV’s on. Seated on the couch and watching is a cat I picked up during a job. I didn’t have the heart to leave the thing to starve or be put to sleep. I named the cat after the job, Earl. We keep away from each other for the most part. He doesn’t let me pet him and the only time he interacts with me is to scream for food while I’m asleep. I hate the damn thing almost as much as I hated his owner. Almost—that’s why he gets to stay with me and not somewhere awful.

  Earl was another hard-luck loser like Charlie. He had the pleasure of taking a stiletto to the base of his skull while eating a cheeseburger in a twenty-four-hour diner at three in the morning. It was the only time I could catch him off-guard because he kept his grandkids with him always. The son of a bitch hoped the kids would keep him safe—real class act. I don’t know what fantasy land he lived in, but there are plenty of contract guys who wouldn’t bat an eye at killing a couple of kids to get at the target. The weird part: he had the damn cat with him in a carrier. I remember getting to my car and having the carrier in the passenger seat with me. It was like I was on auto-pilot.

  The cat was lucky I got human Earl’s contract. I kill garbage, and garbage only—no kids, no pets. They don’t get much of a choice in the company they keep.

  Earl the cat looks over and narrows his eyes. The damn thing likes the TV. I keep it off and he cries all day. I leave it on and he’s quiet and doesn’t tear the hell out of the couch, the carpet, or my bed. Pets aren’t allowed on the lease, so a slightly higher electrical bill seems a fair tradeoff. Though, the days where I’m in need of extra money have become more frequent. Keeping the little bastard fed and sheltered is wearing thin and I may have to cut him loose. I’d rather not put him in a shelter or kick him out on the street, so he gets a stay on that decision until things go south real hard.

  I head into the kitchen. I’m starving. I get a can of whatever the hell I feed that black-and-white monster and pop the top. Earl comes charging in and nearly crashes against the wall. I dump the swill into a metal bowl and let him chow down. Open a bottle of room-temperature water—the cat is particular, surprise—and pour half of it into another bowl for him.

  “Eat up, asshole,” I say.

  Earl lets out a low groan. Probably cursing right back at me. Let him. At least we both know where we stand.

  Charlie stands near the counter. Earl doesn’t register a thing and that tends to keep me grounded that all of this is in my head. They say animals can see crap humans can’t, and I figure if he doesn’t see people like Charlie, I’m stuck at crazy and not haunted. The only thing that leaves me worried is the way Earl avoids my bedroom. He keeps out of it as much as I do. Guess we both find it impossible to lay down on a normal bed—me especially. Spent most of my adult life floating around on cots and hard floors. Real beds feel too soft—comfortable. I had friends that joked that it was a fear of being unprepared for the worst. I believe them. I’d never want to be so comfortable that I could be caught off guard by anyone coming for me. Paranoia, sure, but well-founded. I’m in a business where the belief in people coming after you tends to be true.

  It’s time to feed the other animal in the house. I dig into my fridge and yank out a gallon of water, half a log of flat soppressata from Calabria Pork Store on Arthur Avenue—pure, grade-A, cured-meat crack—and a loaf of semolina bread. The guineas have cured meat down to an art. Can’t deny that. The cubes of beautiful, greasy fat in the meat make my mouth water. There was a time where food like this could be found in most neighborhoods in the Bronx, but most of those old-school Italian delis are long gone. Hurts my soul to think that Arthur Avenue could become a memory one day if the gentrifiers ever get their way.

  Charlie’s moved on to staring at the wall. He’s reenacting his last moments. Looks like he’s hanging in the air. I take a guess that’s about right after I made him kiss the bar. I watch for a minute and try to remember the last time this happened. Draw a blank. Curious guy in death, Charlie is. When the coup-de-grace comes, he disappears, then reappears beside me.

  “Little girl…”

  “You keep going on and on like that, and I’m gonna go crazier.” Concentrate on my sandwich making. “Harass my cat or something.” I lean against the counter. “I don’t even know why I talk to you guys.” I turn to Charlie. “Your kid is all the way in California, man. She’s doing great—honor student and everything. Put that in your head, man. Without you, she was better. She won’t miss you—nobody will. You were already a ghost to her.” Back to the sandwich. I laugh to myself. Rationalizing with a hallucination. Man, maybe I need to funnel some funds into seeing a serious shrink. Might need pills to even my ass out.

  Charlie’s eyeing the bread and soppressata. Doubt a single word I said even registered.

  I take the cleanest knife from my sink and slice the loaf of bread in half. “The living gotta eat. Far as I can see it, you have it nice. Quiet, no drama, and free rent.” I slice a few small pieces of soppressata and pop them into my mouth. Let the mouthful sit a minute to get the fat warm before biting down. Pure heaven.

  Charlie rushes up to me. He seems to swell. He screams, but no sound comes out.

  “Keep wishing.” I shoo him off with the knife as if it would pose a threat. “Scram.” Cut another extra piece of meat and continue to craft my sandwich.

  Charlie walks off and I complete tonight’s project: a foot-long soppressata sandwich. Condiments would only ruin the taste and there’s no way in hell I’d have the balls to place a vegetable anywhere near it. I plate the sandwich, snatch a bag of Fritos sitting near me, and take it all over to the couch with my water. I sit my ass next to Earl and give him a wide smile. “What’s going on in the world today?” I take a bite of my sandwich. “So good.” Offer Earl a bite. “Want some?”

  Earl’s stretches and settles himself into the sofa. He stares at the TV and seems content. Doesn’t pay any mind to the sandwich. Maybe we are becoming better roommates. Normally he’d take a bite, hiss at me, and be on his merry way.

  There’s a pile of envelopes sitting on the end table at the edge of the couch. Scoop them up in my free hand and open them between bites. All the same—bills, bills, and bills. Keeping Liam up and running for the month is going to cost a little more than twenty-fucking-thousand bucks. With rent, utilities, and the rest—after I do my slow mental math—I ain’t covering enough for both of us to survive into next week let alone next month. I’m normally good for this stuff, but with Paulie shorting me and the added treatments I keep agreeing to at the hospital, money has a habit of running out of my pockets and into the toilet li
ke it’s on fire. Whenever I see those totals, fees, and surcharges, my brain hiccups and I wonder if all of this is worth it—if I’m doing the right thing keeping Liam among us. Then I think about my mom. About how she begged me to pull the plug. She told me that the money would be wasted, that I’d end up poor and behind bars because I would get too desperate. It’s a hell of a wound to deal with when I begin to realize she might be right.

  No. Can’t find it in myself to do that. Can kill most any man or woman—so long as there’s reason and a price—but not an honest man. Not my blood. Liam was—no—is a good person. He deserves a chance to come back.

  Finish my sandwich and sigh over the crumbs on my plate. The whiskey haze is fading and my apartment and my guest start to stand out. I can hear Charlie in my bedroom screaming his last words.

  Take my phone out of my pocket and give a good, long stare. The meat in my stomach flips in the mix of water and Bushmills like a dolphin doing tricks for three-day-old fish at SeaWorld. My thumb unlocks the phone, presses the contacts icon, and finds Paulie. There’s a knot in my throat and it feels like cotton’s lining my tongue. I connect the call. My finger hovers over the screen. All I have to do is press the little red phone and when Paulie complains about the late call, I can chalk it up to a butt dial.

  But I don’t disconnect.

  Paulie picks up on the fourth ring. Sounds like he’s been running a marathon. Don’t really want to know why. I try not to let my mind wander onto whatever he could be doing this time of the day that would make him sound that way. Of course, I think of the worst possible thing. Lord help me, I need to get my head out of the gutter. The mental image that pops in my head is going to stay for far too long. I look for Charlie—a much preferable replacement—but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Yeah, Paulie?” I take another sip of water. It settles me down. I can still taste the cured meaty goodness of my sandwich. Wish I had more.