by Shawn Bartek
Ami squeezed the inside of her palms and saw that blood was running from her hand. It wasn’t her fingernails digging in; it was her knife cut that had been seeping down her arm. It had reopened after jumping out of the Smart Car.
“I don’t know, man,” Marc said diplomatically.
“Nah, man, seriously. We’re living in fucked up times, you better wake up. A few of us around here, we know what’s up. And we know the cops aren’t on the white man’s side. They been living under the monkey’s rule for too long. We decided to party on the street and tell the fuckin’ cops we aren’t scared of their fucking tanks and guns and shit. We got our own guns.”
“I need bandages, do you have any?” Ami said.
“Yeah, bathroom’s down the hall on the right,” he said, exhaling another cloud of the crystal meth smoke, “Behind the mirror, but be careful with the door. That shit’s about ready to fall off.”
Ami blankly turned to the hall without thanking Juice.
Juice turned his attention back to Marc, “Do you like The Who?”
“The Who?” Marc asked.
* * *
The bathroom was not nearly as bad as predicted. The toilet had been recently cleaned, and the sink only had a small amount of stubble shavings lining the bowl. There was Gillette aftershave and Axe Body spray.
The bathtub was gross, though. The tile lined with mildew, the drain surrounded by a brown-green stain that could assuredly be explained with the use of the Periodic Table of Elements. Even with an accurate explanation, it would still take convincing that it was anything other than a ring of shit.
She found the Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet as Juice had directed. Thankfully, they were the most sterile items in the bathroom. She lined up four of them across the stinging cut.
Next to the Band-Aids: Oxycodone. But not prescribed to Juice, proscribed to an Esther F Goldhammer. She jammed them in her pocket. Ami was sure if they made it through tonight, she was going to need it just to get a good night’s sleep.
As she stepped out of the bathroom, she smelled the stink of ammonia. Her heart stopped as she realized things had become very real now. The tanker has dropped. They didn’t make it after all. Soon it was going to be all over.
This is where it all ends? Un-fucking-acceptable.
But as she stepped away from the bathroom, the scent became fainter. She walked back and it seemed to get stronger as she approached a door to the left of the bathroom. Just to follow the process of elimination, she decided to open the door to see what could be to blame. The door squeaked as it opened.
The room was lit by a couple of dim lamps, the windows covered with tinfoil. Inside was a chemistry with beakers and burners. It didn’t appear anything was cooking at the moment, but Ami had a pretty good idea what he used the space for. What she knew about such things, she had safely learned from the television in her white-bread suburban living room. This was a small time operation, at best. A lab just to cover Juice and his basket case posse for personal use.
After realizing that it was probably information best left unknown, she quickly shut the squeaky door and turned to exit the hall.
A crash came from the living room. She rushed down the hallway.
* * *
Here’s what happened when Ami was in the bathroom:
“Yeah, The Who are fucking great, man,” Juice said to Marc, “This is from The Kids Are Alright.”
“Oh, sure,” he said.
“So,” Juice said, “That little hottie...”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me you’re hitting that, dog.”
“Nah. We’re…we’re friends.”
“Dude. Give me her fucking number, you little bitch.”
“Ahh, I…well, we sort of have a thing.”
“Naw, too late. Give me her number. You snooze, you lose, fag.”
“I don’t really know if she’d be interested.”
“When she sees what I’m packin’, she won’t have any choice but to be very interested.”
Marc wanted him to shut-the-fuck-up, which of course, he was unable to demand. His calm-shell began to heat up and glow red.
“Hey, man,” Marc said, “Be cool, all right? She’s really cool.”
Juice was beginning to become a little jumpier. His large frame was beginning to vibrate. It was from the crank. A drug that motivated the Ad Counsel to create horrifying PSA’s in order to combat the scourge. The drug that would allegedly provoke people to claw their faces off. Marc worried that he was about to find out how true those ads were.
“So what’s this shit about your sister?” Juice asked him.
“No, it’s my friend’s sister. I…She’s just…We have to go get her and then drive out to Frenchtown.”
“I can probably give you a ride.”
“You know, we’ll be fine. You are too kind,” Marc said.
“More fag talk,” Juice said, holding out the smoky pipe, “Here take some of this shit, you’ll be dyno.”
“Uh, no.”
“What, you’re too fucking good for it?”
“No,” Marc said, his voice becoming wobbly.
“Then take a suck, bitch.”
“No, really, we’re gonna head out. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Dude, let’s fight for your girl.”
Marc was beyond confused.
Juice picked up all of the paraphernalia and carefully placed it on the tiny breakfast bar. Then he pushed Marc onto the coffee table. It was made of cheap plywood and it collapsed easily under his weight. It was not the worst pain he’d felt today.
Marc stood up again. Juice was laughing.
“Huh. I guess you wanted to replace that?” Marc asked.
“Fuck off,” Juice bent down and grabbed Marc’s left leg and pulled it from underneath him.
Marc fell on his back and tried to pull his leg from Juice’s grip. It was a strong grip; the dumbbells sitting next to the couch were not just for show.
“Hey, let me go.”
Juice laughed and imitated him in a squeaky voice, “‘Hey, let me go!’ You fuckin’ fag. Fight me for your girl, you little bitch.”
Marc was still trying to accept that all of this was happening for real. It was like being in Albertsons again; hog-tied and wondering if this was going to be the eternal it.
But he wasn’t tied this time. And he had no idea what this tweaker would try to do to Ami. Marc awkwardly put up his dukes.
Juice tagged him on the face. It was a shock; like having your CPU reset.
Marc’s vision returned to seeing single and he threw a punch. It was weak and ineffectual. Juice ducked it without any problems.
They danced around in a circle in the cramped living room. Juice was The Hulk in comparison; Marc an eighteen year-old kid with zero experience in a fight. He kicked at Juice and Juice simply laughed.
“Alright,” Juice said, “Let’s go nighty-night.”
And with this declaration, Juice jumped on top of Marc. His meaty hand clasped around Marc’s throat; the windpipe feeling the strain under the motor oil stained hand.
Ami arrived from the other side of Juice. She grabbed his ears and twisted them. Juice wailed and released his grip from Marc’s neck.
Juice simply stood up and Ami fell backwards onto the broken coffee table. He turned around and shoved his knuckles into Ami’s face. Marc stood up and attempted to tackle the mulleted rock standing in front of him. He tried to pull Juice down by his canvas jacket. It was a lame attempt, only succeeding to pull the coat off; Marc’s fingernails on his right index and middle finger bent backwards as they slid down the tough fibers of the coat. Not even the adrenaline rushing through his body could relieve the pain jolting up his fingers.
In Ami’s fall, the bottle of Oxy had fallen out of her jeans pocket and rolled on the floor. Juice spotted it like an owl.
“The fuck?” he said, “You stole my stuff?”
“I—,” Ami started, but then Juice was gone
before she could continue.
Marc and Ami looked at each other again with the same W.T.F. face they gave each other at the grocery store.
Before Marc and Ami could get to the door to sweet freedom, Juice appeared out of the hallway with a gun.
A picture flashed in Ami’s head of Dana, sitting at home, eating cereal and watching YouTube. Her heart palpitated; her ears began to burn from the blood rush.
* * *
He directed them to the couch, holding the Glock on them without ever losing track of its potential targets. Ami’s face throbbed from the developing bruise; Juice’s two giant gold rings had broken her skin.
He was seething mad; now occupying a different era than they were. The fight had turned him into the Neanderthal that only understood killing the prey that was in front of him. His finger cradled the trigger of the green steel.
“Please, don’t do this,” Ami said.
“Why were you fucks outside of my house?”
“We were trying to get my sister and we got smashed by that guy’s truck. It was just an accident we’re here, I swear,” Ami said.
“No, I fucking knew it. You two are like fuckin’ spies or undercover cops or something.”
Neither of them could think of anything to say to this lunacy.
Juice raised his pistol at Ami first. Her stomach lurched and she began to flinch. On the TV behind her, was a live video of The Who, playing “Won’t Get Fooled Again”. Behind Juice, she could see the concert’s blue laser lights twist and turn as the music geared up for its mid-song crescendo.
The sound of five taps on the screen door made its way into their ears. Ami opened her eyes.
“Go away!” Juice yelled.
The tapping came again. He backed away to the screen door, keeping the gun firmly planted on them.
The sound of a golf ball hitting its sweet spot came from outside. Juice’s head suddenly flung backwards, his face twisted with pain.
“What the fu—?”
The golf ball sounds came again in a fast succession. Ami didn’t see any actual golf balls, but she swore that was what she was hearing.
As Juice continued to stumble, he raised his gun and fired a shot, it struck the aquarium. The iguana did not appear to be harmed.
Roger Daltrey’s yell blared through the loudspeakers.
A smaller gun appeared through the doorway. It was a pellet gun and the firing onto Juice didn’t stop, mercilessly tagging his arms and legs. The hand holding the pellet gun was Leslie’s.
Chapter XIV
Leslie?
Yes. Ami couldn’t fathom how, but it was her. She was wearing a bicycle helmet and was in soccer jock mode. The porch light shining behind her turned her into a fiery seraph. Ami was so dumbfounded at her presence that she didn’t even notice Scott follow her in.
Leslie continued to fire the pellet gun until she was close enough to kick Juice in the kneecap. Marc dove at the Glock as it became loose and drew it upon Juice. Scott, who could actually match Juice in size and weight, took Juice’s left arm and began to twist it behind his back.
Screams of “Fuck You!” came from Juice, but it escaped his mouth in garbled Esperanto.
Marc continued to point the gun at the frothing hostage. His head felt light as the potential end of this altercation presented itself. He was holding a real gun. A gun with bullets. This morning, he could only think of asking Ami to the prom and now he was about to explode a person’s face. It was as if he had been ripped into a wormhole to another universe, filled with all things in life he’d planned to avoid. It was enough to bring him to the edge of fainting. As fearful as he was for his own life, he didn’t really want to kill this man.
Juice did not cower in fear. He continued to fight, his cheeks puffing as he hyperventilated. He began to say, “You got no idea what the fuck you’re do—”
But Marc got the nerve up to do one thing: he swung the pistol grip hard onto Juice’s nose. Blood gushed over his wife-beater t-shirt. Juice slumped over and closed his eyes. Scott knew better than trust that he had passed out and gripped him with white knuckles.
Ami found a roll of duct tape in a balsam wood kitchen drawer. Scott and Leslie pinned Juice’s arms behind his back and Ami quickly wrapped the tape around his wrists and then his ankles. The ripping sound of the tape leaving the roll lingered in the air until it was completely unspooled.
They stood in a circle around the duct-taped heap in front of them.
“Did the police call your house?” Ami asked them.
“I wish I could say they did,” Scott said.
“Fuck,” Ami said, “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What do we do with him?” Marc asked.
“Are you insane?” Ami said, “Nothing. Sayonara, sucker.”
“I second that,” Scott said.
“Ami,” Marc said, “What if he’s in here and the gas comes through?”
“What? Are you fucking crazy? How in the hell can you give a shit?” she said.
“Leaving him here tied up is sort of like leaving him for dead.”
“Yeah? And? So?”
“He’s on drugs, Ami.”
“Marc…”
“Ami, it’s just not…good.”
Leslie spoke up, “He’s right. Let’s just drag him into the yard and maybe he’ll wake up before anything happens. Then at least he can hop to safety. At least give him even odds.”
“I’m awake, you little bitches,” Juice said, without opening his eyes.
They jumped backwards.
“Look,” he said, his voice sober and more articulate, “We’ve all had a little misunderstanding. I was totally joking around with you guys. I just wanted to scare you. I thought it would be funny. Just let me go, and we can move along like we never met.”
“Marc, we let this asshole go and he’ll stomp the shit out of us,” Ami said.
“No, darlin’, I swear,” Juice pleaded, “I just got fucked up, man. I get a little out of hand sometimes.”
“You fucking pulled a gun on us,” Ami said.
“And you shot me with a…fuck. Did you shoot me with a fucking pellet gun?”
“We can’t just let you get up,” she said back.
“Look,” Juice stared at Marc, “You told me you needed to get her sister. I mean it, I’ll drive you.”
“Bullshit,” Ami said.
“No I swear. Look, I’ll make it up to you guys. I’ll drive you in my pickup.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Ami said, “I gotta better one. We’ll just take your goddamned truck.”
“C’mon, sweetie,” Juice said, “Have a fuckin’ heart. You think I want to be gassed any more than you guys?”
“I thought you didn’t think anything was gonna happen,” Ami said.
“I don’t know, I was just talking out of my ass. C’mon. Like skinny dude over here was trying to say. Be the good guys here. I need help.”
“Okay,” Leslie said, grabbing the gun from Marc’s hand, “This is what we do. I am driving. You all are gonna ride in the bed. We are not letting you go. We’re keeping the gun on you at all times and we’ll let you go when we reach the authorities. But we have to move right now, so I hope you have strong legs.”
Marc and Leslie helped Juice to his feet. They were both ready for him to become a brute tornado and mow them over. Juice just stood there and nodded in the direction to his truck keys. Leslie never kept the Glock or the pellet gun off of him.
Ami picked the Oxy off of the ground and shook it at Juice. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was betraying his newly found calm. Then she grabbed the pot vaporizer and a small bag of shake from the tin can. She stuffed it into her pocket-rich cargo pants.
“Thanks,” Ami said.
They stepped back outside into the darkness.
Then they pushed Juice towards the truck; he leaned over the bed and rolled himself in. Scott lifted two ten-speeds into the bed after him.
Then Leslie ha
nded the gun to Scott, and turned to Ami.
“Ride up in the cab with me,” Leslie said, “We have to talk about my car.”
They drove away from the little trailer on the wrong side of the tracks.
* * *
“How did you find us?” Ami asked her.
They approached a stop sign. Although the town had evacuated and the police were heavily occupied tonight, Leslie still stopped. She took off the bike helmet and faced Ami with a strained grin.
“It was awesome. Actually pretty easy. You led us to you and you didn’t even know it.”
“What? How?”
“Did you have any trouble restarting the car once you turned it off?”
“Yeah, what is wrong with that thing?”
“Anti-theft measure. I called it in to OnStar as stolen. It was disabled remotely. Then GPS led us right to you. Then we saw you through the front window of the trailer. Plus, you know what? I just have to get something off my chest real quick.”
Leslie’s hand, slightly cupped, swung across the seat and landed hard on Ami’s face.
Ami reeled over. Through the glass, she heard the occupants in the truck bed yell in surprise. She heard Juice laugh. Marc forced the cab window open.
Ami didn’t even protest. Her gaze remained where the slap had sent it and she continued to stare at the floor mat. Empty packages of chewing tobacco covered the mat like autumn leaves.
“That was bullshit what you did,” Leslie’s bright eyes were now glassy.
“I had to, Leslie,” Ami continued to eye the trash, “I’m sorry your car got fucked up. But I had to and I’d have done it again. But I have to say how much I appreciate that you came after us. I wouldn’t have predicted that about you.”
“I really wanted my car back. Fuck you guys,” Leslie said, letting loose an unprecedented curse.
“Hey, drama queens,” Juice yelled, “Don’t you have some place to be?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Scott shook the gun at him.
The stoned freak was right; Leslie started down the street again.