The First

by Glen Kenner

  -Stay down, shithead.

  I yell this in his ear but up he comes. I grab his hair, lift him up, and make to use my signature move. But his face is already a bloody, lumpy mess so instead I rabbit punch him once twice three times in the kidneys and he falls over trying to catch his breath. I look up and feel the first raindrops on my skin. The wind is now whipping down the street and even though it’s not quite autumn and the trees are still green, leaves are torn from the huge oaks and blow past me. I turn back to the van and there’s the third guy.

  With a gun. Well, shit. That’s just rude.

  -You are dead.

  People keep looking at me and saying that.

  -I’m gonna blow your head off, fucker. My brother is never going to walk again. So I’m going to shoot you in the head and then in the knees.

  -Wouldn’t it make more sense to shoot me in the knees first and then in the head? You know, so I can be scared and in pain but also feel remorse?

  He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even smile. I don’t know why I try.

  -Look, your brother I guess is the guy that got hit by the car? That wasn’t my fault. He ran out like a chicken shit into the street.

  -We were just there checking out that lot for the construction and that fat black bitch got in our faces. And then you showed up. It’s your fault. And that fat black bitch. Tomorrow I’m going to put a bullet in her stupid n-.

  -Oh, now you really fucked up. I can’t let you hurt her. And she’s actually a very kind woman. And kind of sexy in her own way. You just need to get to know her, that’s all.

  In the dimming light, I see not only that he’s nervously holding the gun, but also that Sarah has gotten out of my truck. She is circling around behind the guy. She’s still wearing her running shoes and even without the strong wind blowing down the street like a wind tunnel we wouldn’t hear her.

  -You’re dead fucker!

  He yells out this one last threat and takes a step toward me with the gun leveled at my head. Sarah takes four or five huge steps, closes the gap between them, and grabs his gun hand with her right and his neck with her left. The gun goes off - pop pop pop - but the bullets fly into the sky as Sarah pulls the gun back and up while crushing his hand. Her left arm is stiff with her hand still around his neck and he’s unable to do anything other than cry out as she breaks and grinds down every bone in his hand. He finally drops the gun and she lets go, both of his bloody pulp of a hand and his neck. She takes a quick step forward while bringing up her right forearm and drives the elbow end right through his face. His head snaps back in a blast of blood and he crumples in the street.

  I kick the gun into the storm drain and grab her hand.

  -Let’s get out of here!

  Just then a lightning streak lights up the sky and thunder rattles the houses around us. We jump into the truck and speed off.

  -That was insane! He had a gun and I crushed his hand and smashed his face and, and…

  She’s sitting upright on the edge of the bench seat and throwing her hands around, flinging water with each wild movement. She’s the kind of woman that, when caught in a downpour, somehow looks as good as before. Or better. Damn. She’s gorgeous. Or is it the thrill of the fight in me, endorphins flooding my brain, caught up in the moment with this pretty twenty year old in the small cab of my truck, her wet t-shirt clinging to her body, her big eyes made even bigger in her state of excitement? Maybe. But she’s still gorgeous.

  -Listen, Sarah, that was fun and all. But you’re not ready for that. He could have turned and put a bullet in your head. Or when you grabbed the gun, his shots could have gone wild and into someone’s window, killing someone. And, that move at the end, with your forearm, you might have killed him. You understand that? You can kill someone with just your hands now. Or an elbow to the nose and drive bone shards right into their brain.

  -But he had a gun!

  -I know. And if he had it pointed at your head, I would have broken his neck in an instant. But just because you’re stronger than everyone, every Third I mean, doesn’t mean you can use it whenever you want. You can take a bullet anywhere on your body except your brain and probably your heart.

  The windows are fogging up and I have to pause to turn on the defroster and slide the dial to direct it to the front windshield. She’s looking out her window.

  -Yes, he had a gun. And yes he might have used it. But chances are he wouldn’t have killed me. So him using a gun on me is not like him using a gun on a random Joe Blow. So we don’t use deadly force unless our lives, or someone else’s, are in danger. I’m not saying we’re superheroes. Or that there’s some bullshit code among Firsts or any shit like that at all. But you can trust me when I say that once you start thinking that the lives of Thirds are cheap, that they’re worth less than yours, it’s a few small steps to becoming a killer. And that will catch up to you, one way or another.

  She sits quietly, all of the excitement drained out of her.

  -I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m not blaming you. You were amazing. You’re a fucking natural! And you were protecting me. Thank you, by the way. But we have to stay in control. When we lose control, people, innocent people, not just assholes like those guys, can get hurt.

  Sarah takes a long swig on her root beer and doesn’t say anything. Did I piss her off? Maybe she’s ignoring me. Or is she contemplating my wisdom?

  -Whatever, John.

  She takes one last long swig of her root beer.

  -He had a gun.

  It’s quiet on the way back to her apartment. The clouds have cleared and the sun is back out if only for a short time before it sets. Sarah turns on the radio and slides the lever down the dial and then back up, not stopping long enough to really listen to any one song. I hear something I recognize and slide it back. And The Beat Goes On. Sonny and Cher. I ask her if she knows Sonny and Cher.

  -No. But they sound happy.

  She then snaps the radio dial off and we sit in silence the rest of the way.

  I pull up to the front of her apartment and without looking at me, she tells me I can come up. If I want.

  -Thanks but I’ve got some things to do. A few small jobs around the neighborhood.

  She nods, still looking out the window.

  -Maybe I’ll come by in a few days? You’ll have a lot more questions and we can pick back up from where we were. Ok?

  She says sure and gets out of the truck. Before closing the door she turns to me and looks me in the eyes for just a second.

  -Back there…

  She pauses and looks away down the street.

  -Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry I beat up the guy. But sorry I’m being weird about it.

  I try to say hey, it’s ok, nothing to apologize for, but she cuts me off.

  -It felt right. My body just reacted and my gut said go with it. I thought…

  She pauses again and then lets out a small laugh that sounds to me like she’s covering up embarrassment.

  -I thought we’d high-five and go celebrate or something.

  She looks back at me with expecting eyes. I give in because of those eyes.

  -You’re right. We should celebrate. You were incredible! Seriously! How about this weekend? Dinner and dancing. Somewhere. I don’t know where. But I’ll figure it out. Sound good?

  -Are you asking me out?

  Her eyes are still big and now there’s a small smile on her lips.

  -Hell yeah I am.

  I know I’ve got a goofy-ass smile on my face. Looks like Kingsley was right. I still am a smooth talker.

  She closes the door and walks away. She looks back over her shoulder and catches me watching her.

  -John, no sledgehammer next time.

  She smiles and keeps walking. I watch her until she gets in the building and then put the truck in drive and pull away. Slow, I tell myself. Take this slow. I haven’t felt like this in a hundred years. But that Sarah was a Third. I knew what to expect. I don’t know anything about this Sarah. I should be mor
e cautious.

  A little scared, even.

  7 - International Man Of Misery

  It takes two days to get all of the small jobs in the neighborhood done. Bathroom plumbing, bars placed over six basement windows, wiring, a small tuckpointing job, and I even dug out a small tree whose roots had choked and finally cracked a sewer line. Most of my neighbors pay me what I ask, which is a third of what anyone else would demand. But not all can pay and so we make arrangements. I know some take advantage of me, but it’s ok. It’s better than ok. Another man’s dishonesty is my well-deserved penance for a long life of wickedness.

  I hop into my truck and head back to Maurice’s. It’s still early and I hope to catch him before he heads to his gym or one of the other businesses he owns. I don’t know the extent of his business holdings but I know he’s doing well. Really well. Good for him. He deserves it.

  I park in the same spot as the other night, cross the street and take the steps two at a time. As soon as I knock, the door opens and it’s the other Maurice. He’s in another workout outfit like the other day. I guess these guys work out every day?

  -Hi John!

  He opens the door wider and flashes me a perfect smile.

  -Come in! I really like that shirt.

  He didn’t look down at my shirt. He has no idea what my shirt looks like. I have no idea what my shirt looks like. I rarely pay attention to what t-shirt I’m wearing. We both look down at my shirt at the same time. It’s a black concert t-shirt for Shania Twain. The Woman in Me Tour ‘95. Must have been one of my twenty-five cent yard sale finds.

  -You like Shania Twain, Maurice?

  He somehow makes that smile even bigger and nods his head.

  -Cool. Good for you.

  Just then my Maurice walks in the room, no workout outfit on, just slacks and a polo, and hands me a small folded piece of paper.

  -Got it from my friend in Miami. He had it right there, so no calling around or anything. Figured you’d like that.

  -Perfect, Maurice. Thanks man. I owe you.

  I put the paper in my front pocket and put out my hand for a shake but he gives me a half hug and walks me outside to the porch, his huge paw on my shoulder.

  -Hey, I got to tell you something. I don’t know if you’re going to be mad or worried or what. But I’d like you to promise me that you won’t hurt my boy.

  I cock my head to the side and try to ask what he’s talking about, but he keeps talking. He’s nervous.

  -Maurice is the one for me. You understand, right John? I know you do. I don’t know how this is going to work, but hell he’s healthy as can be. He’ll have a long life and I just want to be with him every day that I can. You understand that right?

  I nod, because I do understand and because I know he knows about my Sarah in New York. I told him the important parts years ago.

  -So no hurting him, ok John? I don’t want to hurt you and I sure as shit don’t want to get hurt by you but I’ll jump in if I think you’re going to lose your cool.

  -Maurice, just spit it out. What the fuck happened? Did he tell someone about me beating up those guys? Because that’s no big-

  -No. Not that. Let me get him.

  He steps back inside and then they both come out. Now they both look nervous.

  White boy Maurice starts to talk. A bit softer. A bit more rushed.

  -John, the morning after you were here, I took out Clementine. Our Yorkiepoo. We just got her done up with a trim and a new bow and she loves walking through the neighborhood after getting done up, showing off, you know how Yorkiepoos are, and anyway we just got down the steps here and a man was there, on the sidewalk, I guess waiting for me. He was a little fatty. Pudgy. And he knew my name and Maurice’s name. I mean, it’s the same name, but he knew. He kind of walks up to me and said, Howdy Maurice. I mean, who says howdy? Seriously. So I say, excuse me? And he says he’s a friend of yours. John Smith, he says. I say, that’s nice. And I start to go around him. I mean, I could have gone right through him if I wanted. But I start to go around and he says he’s in town and trying to organize a party. A surprise birthday party for John. For you. And that me and my boyfriend were invited. It’s going to be a huge party. Lots of people and dancing, open bar, etc. I say, sounds fun. When and where? And he just ignores me and says he’s trying to get a hold of your girlfriend. I tell him, I don’t know any such person. He says she was here last night, the night of the fight. One of the neighbors told him. He says, surely I saw her. Pretty black girl, tall, incredible body. I say, honey, she was a female, that was all I noticed. I don’t see color. He asks for her number and address. I tell him I have no such information. Then I pull out my phone and take his picture, because you know I think John you’re going to want to know about this. And I was going to Snapchat his creepy ass. I take the picture and he just reaches out, grabs my phone, and crushes it into a million pieces. I mean, what the actual fuck? Who does that? So now I’m mad and I’m thinking, I should crush his head like he did my phone. But he just turns and runs and, well, he ran really fast for a little pudgy man. His pants almost fell down he was running so fast.

  I listen to the whole thing, knowing where it was going. It’s the same guy following me.

  -What did he look like, Maurice? Pudgy, I know, but-

  Maurice pulls a phone from his pocket and faster than I could finish my sentence, he shows me a picture of the guy. The same guy. Damnit.

  -If he crushed your phone, how do you have this?

  -Oh, I took his picture. All of my photos and videos and music automatically backup to the cloud. After he destroyed my phone, I took all of the pieces to the store and told them a car ran over it. Still cost me three hundred dollars. Apparently I didn’t have the insurance.

  He puts insurance in air quotes.

  -I got to go.

  I look at Maurice, my friend, and tell him thanks for the number. Then I fist bump the other Maurice and tell him he did great. I sprint across the street, jump in my truck and hit the gas a little too hard and tell myself to slow down driving on these streets. I’ve got to keep my head on straight.

  At the first stoplight, I call Sarah.

  -Hey, it’s John. You home?

  -Yeah. I was just going to study.

  -Listen, I need you to trust me again, ok? Grab a backpack or a big summer bag and put in a few changes of clothes. But no suitcases, ok? No suitcases. Just a few changes of clothes. Do you have a passport? Please have a passport.

  -I do, yeah. But where-

  -Perfect. Ok, clothes in a bag, no suitcase, and your passport. And whatever cash you have on hand. Go out the back, down a few streets and then back over to the place we got the burgers. Remember?

  -Sure. You mean-

  -Just meet me there in 20 minutes. And listen, don’t talk to anyone, even if you know them. Just keep your head down and I’ll see you in 20. I-

  Shit, I almost said, I love you. What the hell? Where did that come from?

  -I’ll explain when I see you.

  I hang up before I almost say something stupid again. Then I pull out the piece of paper from Maurice and start dialing the long international number. Fuck I hope I get someone who can speak English. My Arabic is rusty as hell after a thousand years. Or has it been longer?

  Twenty minutes later, I end the call and pull into the Fitz’s parking lot. It’s nearly noon and the parking lot is full. Shit. I turn around, jump back into traffic on Delmar and pull up in front of the restaurant. I get lots of well-deserved dirty looks for blocking traffic. Sarah runs over in a light summer dress with a big beach bag. She jumps up into the cab.

  -If this is your idea of a date, you win points for originality.

  I pull out into traffic as she pulls out a Fitz’s bag and hands me a burger. Double everything Sunshine with onions. She remembered. And then she hands me a Orange Cream soda. Huh.

  After the last bite, I start to explain.

  -I was talking with Maurice, my friend from the other night, abo
ut a guy that’s been following me around the last few weeks. Probably nothing to worry about. But this guy came by Maurice's house and asked about you. And that worries me.

  She’s still eating her burger and looking at me but I can’t read her expression. She’ll make a hell of an attorney.

  -I think this guy is with that acquaintance from New York that I told you about. And that could be bad. See, when I told you I got into an argument with that guy and his friends, I really kind of got into a fight, like you said, but they were trying to kill me. And so I tried to kill them back. Which is only fair. And I did kill one guy and thought I got the other, but he got away. So, anyway, maybe I’m wrong, maybe there’s nothing to this, but I don’t want to take any chances.

  She finishes off her burger and crumbles up the wrapper.

  -So we’re going to run to Mexico and hide until they go away? I don’t understand that, John. Let’s just fight them like those assholes the other night.

  -Sorry, Sarah. It’s not like that. These guys are Firsts, like us. And there are probably a lot of them. And they have guns and know how to use them. They would think absolutely nothing of putting a bullet into your head if told to by their boss.

  -Your acquaintance?

  -Yeah. My acquaintance. But we’re not running to Mexico. We’re headed to see a couple of guys that might have some information to help. I should be going alone but I don’t want to leave you by yourself, in case something bad is going down. Make sense?

  -Yeah, sure. It makes as much sense as any of this.

  We get off I-70 and take the airport exit to the main terminal of Lambert. I wind through the parking garage and have to take a spot up top. Once we get inside the airport, I find the Delta gate and buy the tickets. St Louis to Tel Aviv with layovers in Detroit and De Gaulle. Twenty-nine fifty a ticket. Six thousand dollars total. There goes a big chunk of my business account. Sarah tells me thanks for the ticket. I say sure, but I’m thinking that she might not be thanking me once we get to our final destination.