by Mike McCrary
He feels the car slowing down. Remo’s mind scrambles, screaming inside his head, Please let me pass out again.
The brakes squeak and the trunk lights up red as the car comes to a complete stop.
Remo’s heart races, skipping beats, slamming harder and harder inside his chest. His lungs can’t find air. His mouth robbed of all moisture.
He can’t tell if he’s in his head or screaming out loud, but the message is clear: Please. Help me. Please let me pass out now.
16
A swollen, raw hamburger of an eye struggles to open. When it finally does, red spider webs decorate the white of his eye.
Remo is in a familiar spot; a stiff chair in his dining room. His face resembles road kill. His limp body hangs off the chair like bachelor's laundry. Looking around, he’s not sure how he got here. Sitting up he scans his home, wincing the whole way. Even his hair hurts. Nothing is out of place, not a single thing moved, everything right as he left it. The front door is closed.
The leather bag he packed for his escape rests next to him. Even his baseball bat is against his chest, wrapped in his arms. He sees his customary bottle of scotch, a full glass on the table in front of him.
For a moment, he thinks maybe this wasn’t really happening. Like in the movies. It was a dream or he is really dead—well, not that—or something along those lines. How sweet would that be? If all this shit was some big hoax his mind was playing. Or, maybe, he took a few too many whacks to the head from Chicken Wing and his brain crammed too far to side or the other. Perhaps he had a few too many sips of the sauce and blacked out. Not like it’s never happened. Perhaps he miscalculated his R&B and took a little snooze. That hasn’t happened for a long time, but still, it’s completely plausible. These thoughts bring him comfort, until he moves the bat from his chest and finds a note pinned to his shirt.
Comfort shot to shit, he gives the note a rip. As he reads it his stomach sinks to the floor. His hands vibrate, his good eye twitches. Penned in the same writing, and skill level, as the previous note, it reads: Told U not 2 fucking run cunt.
Remo springs from his chair as a panic-fueled freak-out bubbles up and spills out. The chair flies backward, crashes hard against the wall causing an overpriced painting to fall to the hardwood, breaking the glass.
He grabs the bat and searches the apartment.
Races to the bedroom, yanks open the closet door. Empty.
Heads to the bathroom, rips back the shower curtain. Nobody.
Back to the living room, Remo stumbles through. His eyes sink back into his skull. The weight of it all crashes down on him as Remo leans his back against the wall he slides down in a heap. Complete break-down at his finger tips. He battles hard to keep it at bay. His options are complete shit, his life pretty much the same.
He looks to his iPhone on the floor. It lies there, mocking him, begging him to make the call. Almost slapping him with the obvious choice he needs to make.
Remo pulls up the text that Victor sent him earlier, the one with Hollis' contact info. This is the last call he ever wanted to make, but does it anyway. Like calling your parents for rent money when you’ve blown everything on booze, like asking your wife for one more chance, like asking someone you’ve wronged greatly to help save your life.
He dials. Each ring is like a vice grip to his testicles.
Finally there’s an answer to his call of desperation.
A strong voice answers. It’s only one word, but it has a tone, a coolness that gives you nothing but tells you everything. The voice of Hollis answers, “Hello.”
Remo has no idea how to start this conversation, even the mere sound of Hollis’ voice make him want to piss himself and hide under the table.
“Hello . . .” Hollis presses.
No choice, Remo swallows big and replies “Hollis, its Remo.”
Deafening silence from the other end of the call.
“Hollis, its Remo. I don’t know what to say here, but I really need you to give me a minute . . .”
Click. Hollis is gone.
What little color Remo had in his face washes white as his thoughts do jumping jacks. He rocks back and forth, face wrapped in his hands. Pulls them away and stumble-crawls to the bathroom with as much speed as he can muster.
He flies to the bowl, flings up the lid, and vomits violently. It’s the rare type of sickness that can only come from the knowledge that you will certainly die in a horrible, horrific fashion. From knowing it’s all your fault and that things could have gone much, much differently if only…if only…
Fuck it.
Remo falls back from the toilet, pulling down a towel from the rack.
Wipes his face and gives an oddly timed laugh.
Dead man puking, he thinks with a giggle, a twinge of pain spiking up in every part of his body.
The cold reality of the situation hardens his expression.
I'm a dead man.
17
The last thing Lester remembers is really enjoying a handful of that delicious fried rice. Then there was the familiar crack of gunfire, some shattering glass, screams and then darkness. Now that he thinks about it, he recalls a flash here and there of an ambulance ride. There’s also a fuzzy recollection of being rushed down a corridor by many people. Words and phrases like, “Not gonna make it,” and, “Fucked,” being thrown around.
As he opens his eyes and looks around, he realizes he’s in a hospital room.
God bless them.
He did make it.
Lester scans the room with his eyes. He doesn’t want to make any sudden moves that might draw attention or frighten the young woman checking his vitals. She’s standing next to a tray that contains an array of medical things. He can’t quite make out what they are. She’s pretty, he thinks, real pretty. For a moment, in his weakened state, his mind reverts back to his old self. His old self would love a piece of this young, pretty nurse. His old self would do things, even if she didn’t want to do them with Lester. He was inside for a long time—a long time without the touch of a woman.
He’s only a man, he thinks, and man was born a sinner.
What’s the harm?
He allows his fingers to graze the young nurse’s hand. She jumps back, more startled than anything, as she exclaims, “Oh my God!” The words, and the sweet sound of her voice, snap Lester back to a correct frame of thinking. Like a windshield wiper on his damaged psyche, his impure thoughts are wiped away.
His head gets right.
The Lord.
His new calling in life.
Remo.
Lester jumps from the bed, tearing the tubes from his arms. He wraps his thick, tattooed hand around the nurse’s mouth. Her eyes bulge as her voice is reduced to a muffled murmur under Lester’s vice grip. He shushes her with a soft, caring tone. Reassuring her that he will not harm her, he just needs a few things and some information.
He speaks to her in a warm, friendly voice, barely above a whisper. “Blink once for yes, twice for no. Is there someone guarding outside?”
She blinks her green eyes once.
“Is he armed?”
One blink.
He moves her to the window so he can get a look outside. The windows are sealed shut—he can work around that—it’s more about the height. His room appears to be a few stories up. Nothing crazy, but still a long way down. Lester takes note of the ledge along the side of the building and a dumpster farther down the way, delivery trucks passing by. At least there are a couple of options. He won’t know what will work best until he gets out there, but thank the Maker there are options.
Neatly folded in the closet is a pair of sweats and a nondescript white t-shirt. They must be there for when he wakes up and needs to go down to physical therapy. He takes a moment for personal inventory. Doesn’t feel great, but he’s felt worse.
He scans the tray the nurse brought in. It contains gauze, tape and some syringes.
Again he addresses her in a kindly tone as he instructs, �
�Please take everything off that tray, and whatever you have on your person, and place it all in the trash bag from the bathroom. I have no intention of hurting you, but I will not hesitate snapping your pretty little neck if you prevent me from completing the Lord’s work.”
The nurse’s heart pounds, reaching a level of fear she’s only seen on TV.
Lester continues, “I also need you to assist me in changing into those clothes and dress my wounds for travel.”
She’s frozen. Terrified. Can’t even muster a nod.
Lester recognizes the symptoms. He’s caused this response in men and women many times before. That was in the old days, of course. Perhaps he should have left out the snapping her pretty little neck bit. He’s still learning to maneuver within his newfound faith. But, damn, it was easier in the old days. In those days he would simply resolve the situation with some violence. It would be quick and painless, for Lester at least.
No. While following his current path, the righteous path, he must stop and seek to understand what the other person is feeling. Seeking to understand is slow and somewhat painful at times, but it does keep a man in step with the Lord. This, for better or worse, is the path Lester has chosen.
Damn, it’s hard work.
Lester takes a breath, forces himself back into his calming mode, and addresses her again. “Everything is going to be fine as long as we work together on this. Can you help me? Please blink once for yes, twice for no.”
She starts to calm down. There’s something in his eyes. She believes him.
Lester gives her the slightest of nods, as if he’s willing her, leading her to the correct answer.
She blinks once.
Lester hides his shock. That actually worked? Perhaps this isn’t as hard as he thought. One last thing before they get started. He asks, “I had a bible with me. Do you know where it is?”
She blinks once.
Good girl.
18
As if in slow motion, Remo drags his troubled bones through the streets.
The rest of New York City moves at its normal, infamous energetic pace, paying no attention to this guy who can’t get out of first gear. They pass him by, moving around him like water rolling around a rock in its path.
It’s all lost on Remo.
He walks down block after block, trying to piece together some plan of action. Aimlessly stares into shop windows. With glassy eyes he watches as street performers and homeless do their thing. He doesn’t even bother scanning for Chicken Wing.
Knows he’s out there somewhere.
If he wants to kill me, I’m here.
While roaming, he passes a homeless guy holding a sign that reads, THE END IS UPON US. Remo stops in front of him, engrossed by the sign. He glazed stare is stuck on the words, as if not even reading them. More like he’s studying the inside of his own head and his eyes just have to look at something while he’s doing it. His stare bores through the crude sign, all in route to a spot in his mind, a hopeless little corner of the universe that only Remo can see.
Homeless guy asks, “You okay?”
“No.”
“World’s on a freight train to hell, brother. You ready?”
The question—You ready?—sparks an idea in Remo.
The answer is an overwhelming, No!, But at the same time, Remo wonders why if he can’t stop his death, can’t he at least be ready to die? Is that the way to look at this? Is that the angle to play? Like those movies where the character is told he has cancer or some shit and they go through a journey of self-discovery blah, blah, blah…yeah, those. Now, of course, Remo and self-discovery are like a porn star and virginity. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle, but Remo chooses to look at it differently.
I’m going to die, and that sucks, but now what? What’s the play? What’s my move with this?
Remo’s wandering has brought him to a coffee shop, where he’s now sprawled out in a corner booth meant to seat six. A pot of hot coffee sits on the steel-topped table, his flask of Johnnie at the ready. Balled up wads of napkins are scattered among the salt and pepper shakers and the jelly tower. He works feverishly at writing something on a fresh napkin. He writes fast, pouring his mind out on the page, then stops. Crosses everything out and wads it up tossing it to the side to keep company with the other scraps of ideas.
A young, hipster-punk waitress walks up topping off his coffee. Tattoo sleeves wrap her arms and cover her neck. Mermaids or some shit. She could be very attractive, but damn that’s a lot of ink. Nose and ears look like a pincushion.
She takes note of Remo’s struggles with his writing then asks, “Whatcha working on?”
Remo offers her nothing in the way of a response.
Undaunted, she tries again. “Looks like it's giving you some stress.”
He pours from his flask into the coffee and spins it with a spoon, working to get the mixture just right. Takes a sip, adds some sugar. He'd rather not engage in conversation with this person. Drinking is a better way to spend his dwindling time on this earth.
“Oh come on, boss, I've been on since 3:00 a.m. You're the closest thing to interesting I've got.” The waitress is almost begging him to engage. Remo can’t take it. As if he doesn’t have enough troubles, now he has to entertain this person with the remaining sand in his hourglass. He reluctantly replies, “List of shit I want to do before I die.”
“Oh my God, are you dying?”
Remo covers. “No, no, heavens no. I'm good. I saw that damn movie the other night, you know the one? With the before-you-die list? I was flipping around, it got me thinking . . . not getting younger and whatever the fuck.”
“ Oh.” She gives it a think, wondering what she would want to do before she bit the big one. “Sunrise in Thailand?”
“No.”
“Paris?”
“Could give a fuck.”
“Three way with some black guys?”
“Look, I appreciate your input here. I do. But I don't really have the kind of time for big event type things.”
The waitress pulls back, confused. “Don't have time? You said—”
“I mean, if or when you find out you're dying you really don't have a lot of time to spend. In theory.”
She gets it. “What would you do if you only had, what? A couple of days, maybe only a day left?”
“Bingo.”
“I'd call my Mom.”
Remo thinks, dig deeper kid.
The waitress picks up a couple of the wadded up napkins. “Well, what do you have so far?”
Remo tries to stop her. “Those are really just notes.”
“They all say, Meet Sean.”
“Rough draft,” says Remo, hiding the new napkin he’s working on. He looks down the table so she can’t see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t know you, but it seems to me if that’s the one thing you have on a bucket list, then maybe you should go meet this guy. Who’s Sean?”
Two words have never hurt more. “My son.” This is the first time Remo has said this to anyone. Sure, a lot people knew, but Remo never discussed with anyone openly. Not with friends or co-workers or anybody. For some reason, at this moment in life Remo feels the need to share this with a complete stranger. All of this washes over Remo in an instant.
His first instinct is that he’s losing it.
Going soft in a moment of weakness.
Then he realizes something, something so clear…something so clear that even this dumb-fuck with shit stuck in her face and retarded pictures drawn all over her body can see it.
The waitress gives an understanding nod, decides to share. “My dad left us when I was a kid, but I got this P.I. guy I was dating, well not really dating, more like a fuck buddy situation… Anyway, he found my dad a year or so ago and I just haven't had the cojones to actually go see him . . .”
As the waitress rambles on, her voice fades into the background noise. For the first time in days Remo’s thoughts become focused—
for the first time in a few years, really. The answer to at least part of his current dilemma has just become easily identifiable. Ideas fall in line behind his distant eyes.
He tosses a few bucks on the table, quickly leaving the booth, the waitress still yammering on as he pushes out the door.
19
Remo arrives at a downtown office tower.
He plows through a floor filled with bustling cubicles in full swing, hunting for someone in particular. He looks like hell as he sticks his head in cubicle after cubicle with no success, rudely interrupting corporate drones from their tasks, coffee, and three-hour Internet breaks. A few get pissed, and a few more get really pissed. A dull murmur about the visitor buzzes around the floor.
One employee asks, “Can I help you, buddy?” Remo ignores him. Heads pop up like prairie dogs to get a look at the nuisance of the floor.
He checks the Men’s Room.
Then the Women’s Room, where he’s met by a shriek and the inevitable, “Asshole!”
Across the floor. Anna sips coffee as she returns to her desk.
Anna is a naturally beautiful woman, with that rare light of happiness that seems to surround some people. It’s a light that she can, and does, share with. Some people have it. Not Remo, but some people. Not to say her life has been peaches and cream, not even close, but Anna is able to put things in perspective. Everybody has their baggage, their cross to bear and all that. But she’s able to look at the world with big picture mentality and understand her struggles are nothing in the grand scheme of things. Through the years she’s been able to gain a healthy view of life. She thinks having a child has helped her put things in their proper place. Sean is really what fuels her light.
Unfortunately that light gets extinguished as she turns and notices Remo.
Her eyes widen, then harden at the sight of Remo disrupting the work day. She gets a sinking feeling, one she hasn’t experienced in awhile. Anna never knew she had a bad side until she married Remo. He was a project, of course. Most women have one—at least one—they are convinced they can change, positive that the right woman can turn the guy around. They’re completely certain there is a good, good man in there and that other people just don’t see it like they do. Sometimes these women are right.