Flowers in a Dumpster

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  The crunch resounded before the old man fell to his knees and toppled over.

  Only after the initial thrill of murder had subsided did Ferwin realize his mistake. The hitchhiker was still waiting for him, and Ferwin had relinquished his only weapon. He could bend over and yank the hammer from the old man’s skull, but could he do it before the hitchhiker could close the remaining distance between them? Ferwin didn’t think so.

  ***

  Hagan was shocked. He had respected the driver’s will to survive, his cool-headedness in the face of danger, but now Hagan saw there was more to the driver than even he suspected. The killing of the old man, such an unprovoked and heartless act, shocked him. The driver’s apparent lack of remorse made it obvious to Hagan that this wasn’t the first time the driver had killed. There was an efficiency about the man, a professionalism, that told Hagan the driver was a seasoned pro.

  Hagan started forward again, and the driver reached out for the door handle. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Hagan said.

  “The fuck you’re not,” the driver said, running his fingers over the burned flesh of his cheek.

  Hagan turned off the torch and tossed it away, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed. He stepped over the dead man’s body as if it were nothing more than a fallen branch. Along with Hagan’s realization that the driver was also an experienced murderer came a feeling of kinship, of brotherhood. They were cut from the same cloth, Hagan and the driver. United by the spilling of blood.

  ***

  Ferwin didn’t know what to make of this turn of events. The hitchhiker had thrown away his weapon. Did he intend to battle Ferwin in a fistfight, man to man? Thoughts of escape left Ferwin’s mind and he stood his ground. Ferwin had no doubt that he could beat the hitchhiker in simple hand-to-hand combat.

  But the hitchhiker didn’t seem to have combat in mind. He stopped in front of Ferwin, a grin spreading across his face, and said, “I had no idea. Will you accept my apology?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Instead of answering, the hitchhiker asked another question. “How many have you killed?”

  The question caught Ferwin by surprise. He fumbled a moment before saying, “I’m not sure, probably somewhere in the double digits. I don’t keep count.”

  ***

  “Oh, I do,” Hagan said, grateful to have someone with which to discuss his art. He’d kept it bottled up so long that he now found himself rambling. “I’ve killed exactly thirty-seven people to date, twenty-six male and eleven female, thirty-two over the age of eighteen and five under the age of eighteen. After I read a book about Dahmer, I tried eating one of my victims. Christ, it was disgusting. I don’t see how anyone could be sick enough to enjoy something like that.”

  ***

  Ferwin was mesmerized. Here was someone who had killed as many people as Ferwin—more in all likelihood—and the hitchhiker talked about it in such a nonchalant manner. It excited Ferwin, meeting someone who shared his dark desire.

  “Pardon me,” Ferwin said after a few moments, “I hate to interrupt, but the old man on the floor said something about his wife being with him. She’s probably out in the car right now, wondering what’s keeping her hubby.”

  “Of course, you’re right. May I take her? It’s only fair. After all, you got to do the old man.”

  Ferwin smiled and said, “Be my guest.”

  ***

  Hagan knelt on the floor and felt around until he found his glasses, thankfully still in one piece. He went back to his assortment of tools and picked out the corkscrew, hiding it in the pocket of his jacket. While the driver washed up at the sink, Hagan eased out of the restroom and stalked into the parking lot. The rain had stopped completely. Even the wind was letting up. There were two cars in the lot now—the driver’s Cadillac and, a few parking spaces over, an ancient gray Pinto. In the passenger’s seat was an equally ancient woman with fluffy white hair. She stared at Hagan, and he saw her push down the door lock. Hagan plastered on his most authentic smile and made his way to the Pinto.

  The woman was visibly panicked. Hagan knelt by the car and rapped on the window. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice all innocent charm, “I’m so glad you and your husband happened by. I’m in a bit of a pinch.”

  The woman looked toward the restrooms. “Where’s Raymond?”

  “Your husband’s still in the bathroom, ma’am. I talked to him in there. See, my car’s battery is dead and I’m stranded. Your husband—Raymond—said he’d give me a jump.”

  “We don’t have any jumper cables,” the old woman said, clutching her purse in her lap.

  “Oh, I have the cables. If you’d open up—”

  “Where’s Raymond?” the woman asked again.

  “I told you, he’s still in the bathroom. He’s, um, he’s doing a number two.”

  The old woman blushed and looked away. “I’ll wait for Raymond.”

  “I understand,” Hagan said, and smashed his elbow into the window. Shards of glass rained down on the old woman. She scrambled across the seat, reaching for the driver’s door, but Hagan had the passenger’s door open and was hauling her out before she could even get hold of the handle. In the process, the old woman’s blouse was torn open, revealing a raggedy bra with one strap held up by a safety pin.

  Hagan rolled her over onto her back and held her down by the throat. He applied enough pressure to make it hard for her to breathe without completely cutting off her supply of oxygen. She thrashed and struggled, but her frail limbs were useless against him.

  “Please, don’t rape me,” she whispered, trying to cover herself with her ripped blouse.

  Hagan laughed. “Don’t be silly, Grandma. I’m not going to rape you, just kill you.” He pulled the corkscrew from his jacket and showed it to the old woman. She began to struggle again, but Hagan banged her head sharply against the concrete, knocking her semi-unconscious. With a hungry grin, the aches and pains of his body forgotten at that moment, Hagan lowered the corkscrew toward the old woman’s left eye.

  ***

  Ferwin came out of the restroom as the hitchhiker pulled the old woman from the Pinto. He watched with interest from afar, admiring the hitchhiker’s technique, his zealousness. It reminded Ferwin of himself. How refreshing it was to see a young person so dedicated, with so much real passion and ambition.

  When the hitchhiker finished his work, he stood, blood coating his hands. He tucked the corkscrew back into his jacket, looking down at the body with obvious pride. He stood that way for several moments, entranced, then collected himself and walked over to Ferwin.

  “You do nice work,” Ferwin said.

  “That’s not all that much. It was too sloppy, but I was in a hurry.”

  “Well, if that’s how you work when pressed for time, I’d love to see you at your best.” Ferwin tried to smile, but the pain in his cheek turned the effort into a grimace.

  “Man, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize . . . ”

  “That’s quite all right. Hazard of the job. It seems I did a bit of damage myself.”

  ***

  Hagan looked down at the wound in his left shoulder as if noticing it for the first time. Blood soaked through the upper left part of his T-shirt.

  “I’ve had worse,” he said, shrugging his right shoulder. “I know a few doctors who’ll fix me right up, no questions asked. Of course, they don’t actually have a license to practice medicine, but killers can’t be choosers.”

  They shared a chuckle then stood in silence. Hagan was surprised to discover he actually respected this man, and that was something he’d never been able to say about anyone else he’d met. As a gesture of his esteem, Hagan held out his blood-streaked hand. The driver took it without hesitation.

  ***

  When the handshake was over, Ferwin didn’t bother to wipe the blood from his hand. He liked its texture, the thick slickness. “Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked.

  “Won’t be necessary. I find lo
ng walks invigorating, helps me think.”

  “Well, I should be going. It’s late, and I have to take care of my cheek.”

  “It was a genuine pleasure meeting you,” the hitchhiker said.

  “Same here. Maybe our paths will cross again sometime.”

  “Hope so. In the meantime, keep up the good work.”

  “I will,” Ferwin said with a laugh. On the way to the Cadillac, he glanced approvingly at the old woman’s body and all the new holes the hitchhiker had added to her head. As he drove back to the highway, Ferwin raised his hand in a wave to the hitchhiker.

  Driving toward town, Ferwin whistled a tune to himself. The hitchhiker had certainly been dynamic and interesting. Ferwin felt better about the future of America knowing there were young people like that out there.

  ***

  Hagan watched the Cadillac disappear down the ramp before going back inside the restroom. Raymond’s body lay inside the door. Hagan dragged the corpse halfway out, propped it up against the open door so that the dingy light from the parking lot would filter into the restroom. Hagan set about collecting his tools and stuffing them into his pack. Before leaving, he went over to the urinals and looked into them one at a time. In the third one he found the switchblade, floating in the yellowish water. Hagan reached in and put the blade in his pack with the rest of his things.

  Back outside, he inhaled the clean air deeply. The rain seemed to have purified everything, a freshness descending on the world. He closed his eyes and imagined he was the only person on the planet. That he had the whole Earth to himself, that he had ridded the world of every other living soul.

  Except for the driver. He would let him live. Together they would reign.

  Hagan’s pleasant reverie was interrupted by the sound of an approaching motor. He opened his eyes and took off across the lot, rushing into the surrounding woodland. When he felt he’d put enough distance between himself and the rest stop, he made his way back to the highway. It was a five mile trek back to his home, but he didn’t mind.

  Walking along the highway like this, backpack hanging heavy on his back, Hagan felt a little like that character from the old Incredible Hulk television show. This amused him and he said aloud to the night, “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  A few cars passed him, but he didn’t bother to raise his thumb. He’d had enough for one night. He wanted to get home and get some rest.

  He’d probably sleep though the day then wake refreshed and ready for another night of pursuing his art.

  WALKING TALKING JESUS

  I was kneeling at the altar of the old church when a voice said, “Excuse me.”

  This startled me, because I’d been sure I was alone in the sanctuary. I quickly scanned the pews for a new arrival, perhaps someone else waiting to say a prayer, but the place was still empty.

  “I’m up here.”

  The voice was no less startling the second time around, although I did pinpoint its location. I raised my head and blinked rapidly, sure I was seeing things. The large wooden Jesus hanging on the cross at the back of the pulpit stared down at me with his head cocked. His lips creaked up into a slight smile. “Could I trouble you for some help?”

  At first I couldn’t speak. Ironic, I thought. Here was a thing that shouldn’t be able to speak, speaking, whereas I am supposed to speak and couldn’t. The Jesus waited with a patient expression on his splintery face.

  When I finally regained my voice, I said, “Are you talking to me?” Perhaps not the most intelligent question in the world, but my wits seemed to have fled.

  The Jesus turned his head one way and then the other, making a show of looking around the sanctuary. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

  I stammered a bit, cleared my throat, swallowed as if I had a large wad of bread stuck in my throat, and said, “What kind of help do you need?”

  “I was hoping you could help me down from here.”

  “Off . . . you mean off the cross?”

  “Well, yes. You see, I’ve been up here for centuries and it is more than a bit uncomfortable.”

  “But, um, you can’t get down.”

  “I could if you would offer me a little assistance.”

  “But . . . you’re Jesus.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We need you on the cross. It’s what saves us from ourselves.”

  “I know, and I don’t want to be down forever. I just need to stretch my legs a bit, work out some of the stiffness.”

  “I guess that would be okay.”

  “Sure it will. You can trust me, after all. Help me down, let me get a taste of the world, and I’ll hop right back up here in a week’s time. Two, tops.”

  I pondered this for a moment. It didn’t seem an entirely unreasonable request. I knew how bad my neck hurt if I slept funny, so I could only imagine the discomfort of being in his position for as long as he’d been. Besides, it would only be for a little while. He’d promised, and surely Jesus wouldn’t lie to me.

  So I stood up, went over to the corner where I knew there was a supply closet. I located the ladder and returned to carefully help Jesus down from the cross, getting a few splinters in my fingers for my trouble. He was unsteady on his feet and I let him lean against me.

  “Thank you, child,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Paul.”

  “Oh, I used to know a Paul. I hate to do this, you’ve been so kind already, but I have yet one more favor to ask.”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a place I can crash?”

  ***

  I took the sofa and let Jesus have my bed—it seemed the Christian thing to do.

  He was a polite and thoughtful guest.

  I awoke the next morning to the smell of sizzling bacon. Entering my tiny cubbyhole of a kitchen, I found that he had prepared breakfast fit for a king, with pancakes and eggs, bacon and sausage, homemade biscuits with rich gravy, even some fried ham.

  I stared at the feast with wide eyes. “Did you go to the store?” I asked.

  Jesus shook his head. “I used what you had around.”

  “I didn’t think I had this much food in the fridge.”

  “I make due.” Jesus shrugged.

  The food was delicious, and I only had to pick out a few stray slivers of wood, which I then used as toothpicks. Jesus seemed to delight in his meal as well, scarfing down three full helpings.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, “I haven’t eaten in so very long.”

  I frowned. “But how can you eat anything? Aren’t you, you know, solid?”

  Jesus considered this then shrugged again. “I guess it’s a miracle.”

  “That makes sense, I suppose.”

  When we finished breakfast, we both did the dishes. I washed, Jesus dried. Once that was done, I said, “I have to go to work. Will you be alright here on your own for a while?”

  “Sure, maybe I’ll watch some TV.”

  ***

  Two days later Jesus asked if he could borrow some clothes. He’d worn nothing but a loincloth for so long, he thought it might be nice to dress like everyone else for a change. I lent him an old Pearl Jam T-shirt, some cargo shorts, and a pair of sandals. He found a slightly beat up fedora on the top shelf of my bedroom closet and asked to wear that as well. It looked rather silly with the outfit, but you don’t exactly say no to Jesus.

  I took him out to the park near my apartment. He sat on a bench for a long time, watching the children climb all over the playground equipment, smiling and laughing. Jesus, after all, loves the little children. We then strolled along the bike path for a bit, feeling the sunshine on our faces. It was a nice afternoon.

  That evening Jesus insisted we go up to the roof of the apartment building and watch the sun set. I’d never actually taken the time to watch a sunset before. It was indeed magnificent. A celestial light show like none I’d ever seen. We stayed out there long after night fell, not saying much. Jesus
seemed entranced by the stars. For someone whose Father created the universe, everything seemed new to him.

  When we went back down to the apartment, Jesus surprised me by grabbing me and planting a kiss on my lips. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I wanted to experience it.”

  “And how was it?” I asked, feeling a bit flabbergasted.

  Jesus shrugged. “Nice, but I think I’d need to do it some more to really know what I think of it.”

  This time I put my arms around him, leaning in for the kiss. This one was longer, deeper. His lips were hard and his tongue tasted vaguely of sawdust, but the experience still sent a tingle up my spine like an electrical current.

  When the kiss broke, I was panting as if I’d just sprinted a hundred yard dash. Jesus took my hand and told me I didn’t have to sleep on the sofa that night.

  ***

  We spent all day Saturday in our pajamas watching television. He seemed enamored with cable, all the many different options. He watched a little of everything for five to ten minutes then flipped to something else. The only thing he seemed to have a real distaste for was the news.

  “Everything is war and murder and scandal and famine,” he said, grimacing. “Is it always like this?”

  I considered the question then shrugged. “There has always been bad stuff in the world, but it seems to have gotten worse, more hopeless, in the past week. Ever since . . . Well, you know.”

  Jesus changed the channel and the subject along with it.

  ***

  The next day I asked if he wanted to go to church with me.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, rummaging through my closet, looking for an outfit. “I’ve spent so much time there, you understand. I was thinking we could go somewhere different today, somewhere fun.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  He smiled at me.

  ***

  We went to Wacky World, a local amusement park. We rode all the rides—some twice. We ate tons of junk food, petted the animals at the petting zoo, and zip-lined over the lake, something I’d never had the nerve to do before. The day was unforgettable. I had an absolute blast. Although I don’t think I was enjoying myself nearly as much as Jesus. He whooped and hollered and laughed like a kid.