“A little human decency.”
Phil nodded. “Yeah, sorry.” He felt the pressure slacken. “What do you want?”
James took a deep breath and his mood lightened again. “Just take care of the stuff. Have the manager call the contact information. Anyone answers, tell them they can pick it up.”
Phil glanced again at the furniture. Each of the ten bills he’d handed over for the unit burned away in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t just let it all go. He needed this one. Treasure was lurking in the bac, he could feel it. He needed it.
He lunged at the stranger.
James stepped aside and swung his arm.
It hit Phil in the back of the head. He hit the floor.
A knee landed on his back.
His breath escaped and wouldn’t return.
“I thought we had a deal here.” James grabbed Phil’s hair and slammed his face down. “What seems to be the problem?”
Phil spit out a tooth. “Shit man, what’s it to you?”
“I’m sick of parasites feasting on death and loss.” He took a photo and shoved it under Phil’s face. “Look. These are people. Lives. Memories.”
“I’m just trying to get by.”
“Bullshit! Tossing this shit out don’t help you. You just care about the cash.”
“Man, I got to have this. I need the money. I’m at the end.”
James eased off. Sighed. “Shit. Take the furniture. Leave the boxes.”
“Yeah?” Phil sat up, wiping blood and spit away.
“Hurry up. I got a call to make.”
What Goes Around
Davey strolled out of the Texas Electric building into the Texas heat. He flipped up the collar of his salmon polo, and wished his office had jorts day as opposed to jeans Friday. He slipped on his shades, slung his backpack over his left shoulder and headed to the parking garage.
“Spare some change?”
Davey glanced at the dirty hand that emerged from a mound of dirty scraps of clothing. “No.” The smell of sweat and urine wafted. “And take a shower.”
“Privileged prick.”
Davey turned. “Hey, asshole, I work. Why don’t you spend less time on your ass?” He turned and took a few steps away.
He turned back.
“And another thing. I don’t care about whatever sad sack tale you tell people. We all got troubles.” He thought about losing both parents when he was eight, and the burn marks on his legs from the cigar of foster dad number three.
He walked away again.
Not for long.
He stepped back, looming over the homeless man who scurried into a corner. “You’re a damn leech is what you are. Trying to bleed out a living on working people. They should just put your ass in jail.”
He spat at the man and turned away.
Images of foster dad number three kicking a bum in the teeth when he was eleven flashed through his brain. He hated that man. A tinge of guilt fluttered through Davey and he turned back. “I’m…”
His vision blacked out as pain shot through the back of his head. He staggered forward and looked around before another blow knocked him to the ground.
He rolled over, but vomited what was left of his sushi lunch when the steel toe landed in his gut.
He reached down to cover his stomach. His ribs cracked under the next impact.
Davey tried to curl up, protect what he could, but the blows continued. Loud sounds and the smell of urine broke through the haze, but he couldn’t focus.
He needed it to stop.
He raised his head to beg, but the boot found his temple.
A soundless “…sorry” rested on his lips forever.
Under the Influence
“It’s fucking ridiculous is what it is.” Douglas sped down the freeway, the cruise control set at sixty-seven. “Look, I don’t even speed.”
“Calm down, honey.” Marie, his wife, flipped through a book on her phone.
“I will not fucking calm down. This is not fair.”
Marie set her phone in her lap. “Look, you got a ticket for talking on your phone. It’s against the law.”
“I know what the fucking law says.” He moved into the left lane to pass a white truck. His daughter in the car behind them did the same. “The point is I was not being unsafe. It’s a stupid law.”
“You’re setting a bad example for your daughter. You know, she texts all the time when she drives. They say it’s more dangerous than drinking.”
“Fuck that shit. Show me someone who can drop being drunk in their lap when they need to pay attention.” He pulled up even with the truck and looked over. “Look at this son of a bitch.” He pointed. “He’s fucking eating while he drives! From a bowl. A fucking bowl.”
“So?”
“So, there’s no law against that shit.”
Marie picked her phone up again and rolled her eyes. “They’d give him a ticket if he was driving dangerously.”
“Right, and that’s how it should be with my texting too. I’m driving safe? Leave me the fuck alone.” He flipped his middle finger to the truck driver who balanced his bowl and returned the gesture.
“Doug, don’t do that. Driving angry doesn’t do anyone any good. Just relax.”
“I’ll relax when I fucking feel like it.” He passed the truck and took a deep breath. “Fucking nanny state assholes telling me what to do all the damned time.”
He glanced in his rear view mirror. “What the fuck? Now look at that douche bag.”
“What,” asked Marie.
“He’s swerving around like he’s fighting off bees or some shit. What a prick.”
“Is Stacy alright?” Marie turned around. “Doug, I’m worried.”
“See, see what I mean about real dangerous driving?”
“Not now, Doug. Stacy.”
“If he hurts her, I swear I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Just pull the fuck over, Doug.”
“What?”
“Pull over and let him get past us.”
“Fine.” Doug pulled to the shoulder and Stacy followed.
The white truck slowed next to them. The driver leaned out his window and spit on Doug’s Mercedes before driving away and laughing.
“That fucking, asshat.” Doug sped off. “I just got this fucking car washed.”
Marie held onto the oh shit handle. “Doug, what are you doing?”
“I’m gonna teach that little shit a lesson. The fucking police may be too busy giving out tickets for goddamned phone use, but this little fuck wad needs to learn.”
He was on his tail.
“Doug, back off.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to concentrate.”
The truck accelerated, but Doug had little trouble keeping up. “That’s right, run fucker. Who’s the badass now?”
“Doug!”
He ignored Marie. “I’d bump you off the fucking road, if it wouldn’t hurt my paint job.”
“Doug, you’re scaring me.”
“Then go the fuck to sleep!”
“Doug!”
The truck made a sudden exit. Doug followed.
“What about Stacy?”
“What?”
“We’re taking our fucking daughter to college.”
“She knows how to get there.”
“Douglas Bryant, you get back on that highway!”
The truck turned right. Doug followed.
“Doug, you’re going to get someone hurt.”
“Yeah, that fucker in the truck is gonna hurt.”
Marie crossed her arms and shook her head. She placed a call. “Hi Stacy, your father has decided to be a fucking idiot again, so we’ll be late.”
“Love you, honey,” Doug yelled.
“Yeah, bye sweetheart.” She ended the call. “Happy?”
“I will be. As soon as this ass clown learns his lesson.”
“And what lesson is that dea?”
“To fucking drive.”
M
arie sat with her mouth agape. “Unbelievable.”
Doug started to respond, when the truck hit its breaks. Doug slammed on his, and skidded around the truck. “Fuck.”
“Shit, Doug.”
Doug got his bearings back, but the truck was gone. “Son of a bitch!”
“Can we go now?”
“I guess so. Fuck!” Doug shifted the car into drive and headed back along the two land road.
“Do you know where we are?”
“Somewhere between where we exited and the college.”
“Not funny, Doug. Do you know how to get back to the highway from here?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be easy enough. We’ll just drive along until we get to a major road again. I think we passed a couple.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Typical.”
Doug drove slowly, trying to pick out signs. “Get your phone out and find out where we are.”
“Fine.”
“See, phones make driving better.”
“Not now, Doug.”
He leaned forward across the wheel when the car lurched forward. “The fuck?”
The white truck sped by, the driver’s middle finger extended toward the sky.
“Oh, that is it. You are fucking dead.” Doug sped toward the truck, forty, then fifty on the speedometer.
“Doug, slow down.”
“Fuck that, he hit my car. He’s a fucking menace.”
“So are you.”
Doug ignored her as he merged back onto the highway. “See, back on the highway. No problem.” He kept pace with the truck. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety.
“Doug, slow down.”
“I’m fine.” He wove in and out of traffic.
“Shit, Doug, not again.”
“What?”
“Look behind you.”
Doug grimaced at the police cruiser lights. “Well, at least that asshole will get a ticket too.”
Ahead, the truck slowed alongside a whiter Mercedes.
“Shit, that’s Stacy,” Marie shouted.
The truck bumped her into the guard rail.
“Fuck you.” Doug pulled up behind the truck and clipped it from behind. “You are fucking dead.”
Marie turned around. “Stacy’s still driving. She’s seems okay.” She turned back. “Let him go.”
“No fucking chance. He’s a goddamned menace, and I’m going to stop him.”
“Doug, let the police handle it.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I stop, he’ll stop with me. Call ahead to some other shithead to stop the truck, but who knows if they’ll find him.” He rammed the truck again. “Probably too damned busy writing tickets for texting.”
“Doug, enough.”
“I’ll decide when it’s fucking enough.” He pulled up the back corner of the truck and turned, sending it into a spin. It hit the cement wall and came to a stop. “Give me my gun.”
“Doug, I don’t…”
“Give me my fucking gun!”
Marie didn’t move.
Doug reached over her and took it. He stepped out of the car. “Come on, fucker. Get out.”
The police cruiser stopped.
The driver of the truck got out. Bowl in hand.
Doug marched closer, gun extended. “You almost killed my daughter, you jackass.”
The driver tossed his bowl at Doug. “Why don’t you cry about it, old man.”
Doug tasted the wet, sweet, gummy contents. “Oatmeal? You fucking threw oatmeal at me?” He leveled his pistol at the driver’s head.
“What, are you gonna shoot me, old man?”
Doug fired a shot over him.
“Shit!” The truck driver fell to the ground.
“Put down the weapon,” the officer ordered.
Doug looked back. “This ass hat almost ran my daughter off the road. Twice.” He kicked the bowl. “Because of his fucking oatmeal.”
“Put down the weapon.”
Doug shook his head. “No, I’m not the bad guy. This little shit is who you need to fucking arrest.”
“I won’t warn you again. Put the weapon down.”
Doug stared at the pistol.
He heard tires squeeling.
He saw Stacy crash into his car.
He saw Marie tossed from the car over the side of the highway to the underpass below.
He saw the semi drive out with Marie on the hood.
He heard the tires screech and the engine rumble.
He dropped the gun and ran toward the crash.
The officer yelled something he didn’t hear.
He ran to Stacy.
Blood was everywhere. Her limbs broken and at odd angles. Her eyes lifeless.
He glanced down and saw the half written text message.
He didn’t fight when the officer shoved him to the ground.
The Miracle
Bathed in the blue light of the monitor, Grendle, or Harry according to his mother Mrs. Daniels, passed his hands over the keys, communicating hopes, dreams, jokes, and lies to his friends on the other side. In the chat room, he was a programmer who enjoyed rugby and rock climbing on the weekends, and who spent his mornings at a local coffee shop watching people pass. He loved the life he projected, and he enjoyed being the envy of the reclusive crowd that thrived on his tales of adventure and social oddity.
“I swear,” he keyed, “she was wearing a hat that looked like a bird taking a crap. It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”
“lol, Grendle.” Evergreen was always on the chat room, and never ceased to be amused by tales of wardrobe curiosity.
“Anyway, I gotta run. See you all later.” Harry waited for the exclamations of good-bye and the invitations to come back soon before exiting the page. He blinked his bloodshot eyes, rose from the chair for the first time in several hours, stumbled to the restroom, urinated for what seemed like another hour, walked down the hall, and fell into his bed.
Soon he was asleep. Harry normally stayed in chat until he nodded off a few times at the keyboard. Going directly from his imagined world of the chat room, to the free form landscape of his dreams, allowed his to ignore reality completely. Since he could not stand to see anyone, whether in person or on television, he preferred to spend as little time awake and alone as possible.
Harry’s life was not always so isolated. At twenty-one, he enjoyed all the things he claimed to enjoy now. He spent weekends playing rugby and basketball, as well as hiking up kills and repelling down the face on the opposite side. Mornings before classes at Central Texas University found him at the Dead Leg Coffee Shop sipping on espresso and watching people walk by, taking notes on clothing and hair.
On his twenty-second birthday, his world changed. He sat at his favorite table, on what appeared to be a normal March day. The air was slightly sticky, but the soft north breeze, and the cloud cover made it a comfortable feeling rather than a sauna. He took a sip from a decadent café mocha with four shots of espresso, and widened his eyes as the caffeine surged through his system, trying to chase the exhaustion from too little sleep from his eyes and muscles.
Alert from the heat and pungent aroma, Harry looked up to take in the early morning crowd of pedestrians. He fell from his chair screaming when he saw a young woman who he saw daily. He could recognize her from the other end of the block because of the vibrant color of her hair. Though it was seldom the same color from week to week, she had a knack for creating colors that nature had never considered.
Two colors shocked him that day, but neither were her hair. The splash of crimson blood over the pallor of her skin made his stomach turn and sent him into hysterics. He screamed for help but received only odd stares. He clamored to his feet and ran through the café begging for help, not stopping for a response. He glanced back to the woman who was staring at him with what appeared to be anger in her eyes, but his gaze focused on the gunshot wound to her chest and not on her face.<
br />
Furious that no one would help, he reached for a man near him and turned his head to face him. His hands remained on the man for only a second. He could not bear to maintain his grasp on the bloated, blue features of the man, though he could not take his eyes away from the rope burns that decorated the man’s neck. Harry ran from the man, scanning the area around him. In each face he saw death. Pale skin, bloated features, blood, burns, the ravages of age. Each person looked as if they had just passed away.
He ran from the shop, ignoring the screams behind him, and turning away from the faces of death that greeted him on his way home. Each person he saw, even those he recognized, seemed dead. They would try to talk to him, but he could see nothing but wounds and decay. Once he reached his apartment, he closed and locked the doors and windows, drew the blinds, and crawled into bed. At that moment he felt that his world had collapsed. He could not have imagined what it would feel like in the tenth year of his isolation.
Through the years he had tried to leave. The day after his first encounter with his affliction, he tried to leave the house again, assuming it was some sort of hallucination brought on by an unknown substance. The sight of his neighbor proved his theory bogus, and he returned to his domicile. After a few weeks he decided to see a doctor, but he could not bring himself to go for the appointment. Seeing a dead man examine you was not something he was prepared for. Even his reclusive existence was not as easy as he had hoped, as the television became simply a vehicle for him to see how famous people would look when they died.
His on-line life was born from the desperation. Knowing people only through words was his last resort, and he threw himself into it to hold onto sanity. Using the programming skills he acquired, and learning new ones in his considerable time, he developed a nice portfolio of projects., and was able to telecommute to his job. Combined with his growing circle of on-line friends, Harry had eliminated the need for all human contact outside of food delivery and the occasional repair call.
The morning after his recent late night chat, he was aroused by the sound of his doorbell. Glancing at the clock, he assumed it was the grocery delivery that came each Friday morning. He did not mind seeing his delivery driver. Fortunately for Harry, the driver would someday die a very easy death, and simply appeared to be a very old man who could carry great loads. Though Harry knew his to be the face of a dead man, the years had inured him against that particular visage.
Mayhem: A Collection of Stories Page 6