A Better Kind of Hate

by Beau Johnson

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  Saving the World, One Appliance at a Time

  “Can you hear me now?”

  I know. I know. But we only get the one go round, right?

  We’re at the place, our special place, and my work face has replaced my everyday face, lack of hair included. “I’m only going to tell you why they call me ‘The Arm’ once. Do yourself a favor: listen the fuck up and slow the fuck down. You do that, all three of us can get to the places each of us needs to be.” I look over to Randy, offer him the megaphone. He shakes his head, pulls his pants up and over his ever expanding gut. “I ever once take that thing when you ask?”

  I smile and look back down toward the man of the hour; to the man whose name is Paul. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a ratty flannel shirt which flails each time he tries to run up the sides of the pool. Sliding back down, nothing changes, the man coming to rest within beers cans, wines bottles, and other, less distinguishable waste. “It was an accident, really, me getting that nickname. Me and my brother here just doing our bit the day it went down,” I go on, my voice twenty-six stories high. I tell him of Marty Barnes and how he and that particular piece of shit shared the same strain of dirt-bag; middlemen to monsters who used children like toys. Taken by surprise, Barnes gets past both Randy and I that day but Randy, his abdomen nowhere near the unstoppable expansion it will become, is up and after him before I can pull myself from the floor. Dazed, I hit the balcony in hopes of becoming a lookout.

  “Everything happens fast after that. I mean, really fast.”

  In boxers and a beater-T, Barnes is below me, twenty stories down and catching his breath behind a rusted-out Ford. To my left, on the concrete, is the air conditioner I would become famous for. I pick it up, heave, and call out to Barnes two or three seconds after the leaking machine has left my hands. Now, I have never been the best of shots, not on the best of days, but I will admit to being somewhat lucky in life. It’s the only reason Barnes takes off when he does I think, and why he looks up and back the moment I call his name. “I saw his eyes too, there before the metal took each of them away. Not fun. Not how you’d think. Every last bit of bone, hair, and grey matter parceled out into something like a nine-foot radius. This doesn’t even include the blood puddle his neck creates.”

  My little speech done, I release the bowling ball I’d been taunting in promise. Lob it like the weapon of destruction I want it to become. The man screams as it descends. Continues to scream as the concrete above his head cracks, relents, and comes to hold the ball like an eye. Behind me, Randy sighs. “You know you have a problem, right?”

  I want to ignore him, I do, but sometimes a brother is the only friend a man can have. “It’s only a problem if you can’t stop. I’ve read the books. Pretty sure you should read them too.” He eyeballs me hard, just like our father used to do. It doesn’t do half of what he thinks it does but it’s a game neither of us can quit. Not if we wanted answers.

  I turn back round, drop ball after cinderblock after microwave oven. The balls I found on sale at SPORTCHEK, everything else being me adjusting to the environment I’d been given. So you know, either way.

  The man named Paul dances and rolls, shucks and jives, and still I come close to hitting him more times than not. I can’t quite hear the words pouring from his mouth, not really, but a pretty good bet would be he knew we were done with fucking about.

  Last bowling ball deployed, I straighten first my holster and then my badge. Randy does the same.

  Time to see if our incentive took.

  Time to see if our bird was ready to sing.

  Back to TOC

  The Struggle Is Real

  New plan: find a better class of man.

  This is what’s going on under my extensions as Renee’s “friend” levels his gun at my head. Well okay, there’s a little bit more to it than that, I suppose, but stuff such as this is meant to come with the territory, no? Instead I have what I have: my sixteenth failed relationship in as many goddamn years.

  Man had a handle too, which maybe-kinda-sorta should have been a tip-off right out of the gate. Me and judgement though, we tend to pretend we understand one another right up until the bruises appear, the money runs out, or the dope and drink start quenching things better than I have ever been able to.

  Brings us to Renee, the newest guy in my life. A Frenchman, I still recall his smile when we met, his big hairy hands over mine. Hey, you would like to dance? he says with his mouth. His eyes are a whole other story. Finding Dory, perhaps. But rebooted. The end result coming to hold not just one type of shark, but the whole damn species.

  Okay, those eyes said, but first I’m gonna go on and eat you up. And you know what? You are going to enjoy the way I chew.

  So yeah, I’d known from the get-go I might have been out of my depth. Sure, I like to fool myself as much as the next person and really, who doesn’t? But there comes a time. Christ, does there.

  “No hands. Just suck.” A tall order, sure, but one I have always been game for. Oh yes. Every inch of the way. Not because the performance is a particular thing of mine, but because I am a people pleaser to my core. Might be because daddy touched me I’m like this. Might be because my mother did not. Either way, it comes down to a combination of loneliness, gentlemen callers, and bad decision making so epic, statue, honor, and erected should be the only names I respond to. Doesn’t help I like to be fucked often and well either, but even that right there is me stretching things somewhat. I need to always be with someone I suppose. For the majority of time I’m awake and breathing I mean. Gets me into trouble is what this does, and mixed up with guys one rung below the bar of standards methinks.

  Brings us to the fridge full of body parts Renee and I end up staring into. “Well, pet, would you look at this?” He didn’t have to say it. Not in the least. My eyes just about outta my goddamn skull. We’d already found what we’d come for: the dope. What I was told was in lieu of a payment owed. Renee’s “friend,” our “ower,” some sorta Richie Rich-type. Chandeliers and paintings the whole place over. Stairs and sofas and rugs so plush I could more or less swim. Why the hell didn’t we leave when we had the chance then? Why make our way to the lower level and the red/black curtains we should have never pulled back?

  “Just want to take a peek around, pet. Won’t be but a tic.” But it was a tic. Many tics. Arms and legs. Torsos and thighs. Wasn’t the worst of it though. Not by a country fucking mile.

  Turning, I feel the heat of the bullet that enters the back of Renee’s head go past the bridge of my nose like breath coming from God. My man’s chest hair and skinny jeans fly forward in response, what remains of his head slamming into a crisper full of ring fingers and thumbs. I scream. Go to my knees with my hands held tight against my ears. Takes me a few seconds but I begin to realize I’m still alive. I look up, unable to control my shaking, my eyes right into the bright blue of the dude holding the gun. He’s older than Renee, darker, and the man-bun he’s attempting has just about come undone.

  “You here by choice or did that piece of shit force you?”

  There are many things I could have said. Many things I could have done. Wishing to remain whole, I recount my life as best I can. Done, he says, “That so? If it is, prove it.”

  I rise. Wipe my face. Tuck my hair. Take hold of the axe he motions to, the one hanging just back from the side of the fridge. I dig in and swing, the power I unleash into what remained of Renee something I never knew I had. It’s cathartic, primal, and I scream the entire time it takes to take his body apart.

  “See?” I say, and my breath comes out of me as it does after sex.

  He says he does, yes, and then he lowers the gun. I seem to see him for the first time as he does this, and the exchange that comes scares me more than what I have just been through.

  It is the look of lust which stares back at me. The look of love.

  Fuck—just my type.

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  Darnell (Waiting on th
e Day)

  I watch from up high; me, the king of building nine. This is what I tell myself, wearing shorts I’ve yet to change. The rifle is beside me, like a pet whose silence is learned. In the lawn chair I sit, a man now forty-five. Bone-thin, wiry, I eat Fritos until the bag is done. I chase the chips with a single Bud and then another because I can. Passing the fridge I see my unshaven face, look past my lying eyes. I think, Why do you go on, but the thought is fleeting, gone and replaced faster than it is made. Things are easier this way, when delusion is at its peak.

  Back on the balcony, back in my chair, I further my vigil still, somewhat giving what I got. Does that make sense? Not really. Do I care? Not one fucking bit. What intrigues me is the day; the journey it might provide. It gives me hope, as it always has, ever since this thing I do began. To the east the day begins, peaking, and then runs every way at once. Shadows stretch, traffic comes; with traffic, people, and people, bikes. Some run, most walk, but ever onwards each of them march. On and on they ride, unaware it’s all a lie. Or perhaps they know the truth, and like me, wish for something more. Bullshit, really, but a flavor made popular by what passes for the times.

  Across from me are apartments, more buildings, the hospital and church. Factories are in the background, history to the land. Here I watch a man openly drunk at a quarter past ten. I focus on him tight, the sight above my gun giving me a clear and present pose. Paper bag in hand, dressed in unkempt clothes and a red fedora hat, he weaves in front of the Drug-Mart, happy as a lark. He is singing it seems, or quite possibly conversing with himself. Women walk by him, and men, patrons, each veering as if he were contagious. Perhaps he is, and the fear they have is justified. I would question it however, believing the fear portrayed a shame. They know his look, his truth; that too easily the same could happen to them.

  Last week, one block over, a man and woman fought behind their car where their drive and the sidewalk meet. He wore a muscle-T, she a too-tight dress. Her hair was red and his shaved bald. Once he hit her, then twice, and she crumbled to the ground. He does a dance of some sort, like he’s proud, and I fixate on his pants, that they hang too fucking low. Suddenly another man appeared; he who intervenes. He is black and wearing a blue bandana and is bigger than the man he confronts. They duel verbally, face-off, and then the shit gets real. Baldy pulls a knife and cuts Bandana deep. From my sight I see it bloom, his shirt a violent mess. But Bandana is far from done, and to my surprise he kicks the first man’s legs out from under him. As ground and Baldy meet I hear the sirens first faint, then loud, then watch as they approach. One car, two cops, and Bandana has his hands raised even before the cops are out of the black and white. Baldy is not as smart. The big cop takes him down, a Taser before his rights; a knee as well, there in the middle of his back as both officers applied the glinting cuffs. The man who intervened, he is the one I was meant to see, the reason I carry on.

  The day continues, hot, and I forget about the fight. I concentrate on today, wonder if I’ll be around come this time tonight. I change my view, then again, and then another time after that. I am looking, you see, watching, in anticipation of a glimpse.

  To my left I see him, soft and dull and thick. His brown hair screams of murder, of the secret self within. A duffle bag is over his right shoulder, held by meaty mitts. The bag is big and black and I believe it contains a head. It’s there in the way he walks, alive in the color of his jeans. I follow him through my scope, letting the nose of the gun rest upon the balcony’s old and rusted rail. His step is brisk, his loafers light, and I hold the gun tighter than I ever have before. One little squeeze, I tell myself—all it would take and the monster would cease to exist.

  The air conditioner surges, gurgles, and I turn my head to look. The back of it drips as it has always done and my thoughts, they change again. I stub my toe on the bottom of the barbeque as I go to get another beer and sleeve of white saltines. The crackers I eat at once, and only because I’m never full. Clean your plate. Mind your mom. Do what’s told is right. These are the things that make me who I am. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I don’t know, though. It seems to me there is another man, a future self, and he is only tucked away. He is the man who screams inside our eyes when the world is beyond our grasp. He is dark, this man, but seldom is he heard. Seen, yes, and only because of what he sells. “I have paid my dues,” I say aloud and resume the day that’s come.

  No longer gone, the woman from the corner of Park is clean and ready to work. She presents herself, finds a john, and I follow them as I can. In his car she gets to work and I envision Halle Berry, more specifically, one of the many characters she has played. The john is no Sam Jackson, the opposite in fact; white and fat and bald, pasty as an un-popped zit. She works him though, full bore, and soon the transaction is complete.

  In front of the Drug-Mart, I check in on the drunk; the man continues his dance. Cars drive in and cars drive out. Out loud I recite each of their license plates and then aim for every head. I get them all, every shot, and predict how it goes down. They stand as I shoot, the first shot locking them in place. A moment later a woman screams, her scream becoming the dam. Breaking, they run, each of them searching but unsecure. I pick them off as they go, as many as I can; one down, two, each in the back of the head. Panic reigns, faces explode, flotsam to the wind—

  Brakes lock, lock hard, and the familiar screech begins. There is time however, and the driver, male, avoids what could have been a very costly mess. I sit back, lay the gun across my lap. It is fine wood, a stock barrel, and I caress it like a pet. A present from my father, I have never felt it spent. I dream of it happening, I do, on days quite like today. It never comes to pass. Not as I would like. This is where God comes in; where he goes and rights the day. They say to temper evil there must always come some good. He’s good like that, at messing with my head. If ever there was a secret man.

  In the parking lot the car is moving much too fast. The girl is small, away from her mother’s eye, and I see this all without my scope. The drunk does too, and as she walks down from the curb he is after her faster than I would have thought. In seconds the car will strike her, kill her, as I know it’s supposed to do. It does not however, and the man’s fedora is given flight instead. Sacrifice they will say, and that the man had been a hero every single day. They will say this with pride and wear it like joy, each of them forgetting how they would come to stand clear of him not a week past from the day. This is human nature though, the beast who loves and attacks. For forty years I have known this, since my father gave me sight.

  “Darnell?” she says, and I know at that moment that my day has come undone. Dead drunk or not, when Petra calls, I am there to answer.

  I find her by the door, grocery bags in hand. “You just gonna stand there? C’mon, help a woman out.” I do. I take the bags and put away my other self, the one from deep inside. It is time to form my face for her, the one she needs to see.

  “Something’s going on outside, over at the ’Mart. Lots a screaming and carrying on as I drove by. You seen it, I suppose?”

  “Looks like a man died,” I say, and she stops so suddenly I think I’ve left my other self out for her to see.

  “You don’t got that gun out there again, do you?”

  “Petra, dear; is that the type of man I am?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, and lumbers toward the dining room table. She fits, barely, and I watch as her body forms to the shape of the chair. For better or worse, I said, on the very same day as she. “It’s just when a man, when he starts to spend most of his days on a balcony with a gun, it tends to make a woman nervous.”

  I smile softly as she says this, believing it conveys everything I wish to say. In the kitchen I find her treat jar half full, at just below the line she never likes to see. I take it to her, remove the lid. Standing, I feed her peanut butter cups, one and then another. She accepts them gratefully, her breath now fuller than before. Upon her fifth she pulls me close. Tight, she holds me
around the waist, whispers that all she does is worry. I tell her that there isn’t need, that today has come and gone—but then I feel myself stir. Petra does too, and soon I am home within her face. She doesn’t mind, and hasn’t since the scale could no longer take her weight. Not that I do either, as her mouth is just as warm.

  “I am only looking for a glimpse, Petra, all I’ve ever asked, that the evil of this world is being held at bay.” I tell her this, knowing it is exactly what she needs, that for Petra it is more about right than it is about wrong. It is a fallacy, of course, but the blinders are the armor my wife has always had to wear. Nodding, she continues her pace; slow, but full, all in. She cares, she does, and the peanut butter smell is nice. What I don’t explain is that the chamber is never empty and that tomorrow could very well be the day. Done, I take her chin in my hand and thank her for my gift. Shorts up, I give her the grin that she requires, the one that says I am who I should be, and then I go for the remote. “Come on!” I say. “I think Jeopardy might still be on.”

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  Regrets? I’m Thinkin’ Yeah

  Two days before I die Michael is hip deep in me from behind. I understand why this has entered my mind so I might as well go one better and say I’ve always liked sex this way, soon as I realized there was an actual choice as to how the act could be performed. It was the same thing with deep throating; a class I mastered my sophomore year. I’d like to say these things are inconsequential, but I can’t, not after I realized it had been Linda who’d hit me from behind.

  Heavy set, with all the fat pooling in places woman do not like, Linda would be Michael’s wife of twenty-two years. I would like to say something nice about this woman, seeing as it was me fucking her husband, but no, I can’t, and I pretty much have to go and blame the noose around my neck as to the reason why. It doesn’t stop me from using my big girl voice to scream bitch as loud as I can. Cunt comes into play as well, but that too remains inside, there behind whatever type of gag she has jammed inside my mouth.