THUGLIT Issue Thirteen

by Kevin Egan

  (See what I said about America? A wife would never have pulled such a stunt in ancient Greece, I can assure you!)

  The old man extended the box. "Want to hold it?"

  Without thinking, I reached in and took the gun. At that moment my life changed.

  Like most educated, sensitive people I have always considered guns to be unsavory things—the province of paranoid rural alcoholics and backwoods racists. How wrong I was! The moment I held that solid, seductively curved thing in my hand I understood the appeal. I was hooked.

  My neighbor saw the change in me too, the look of deep reverence that must have been impossible for me to hide, because he grinned broadly like I had just joined him in a secret fraternity.

  "Feels good, don't she?"

  "How much would something like this cost?" I asked.

  "Can't say. Think I paid fifty for it. But I couldn't sell it, if that's what you're asking. Not sure that's even legal."

  I boxed the pistol and put it back on the shelf—reluctantly, unhappily. As I did, I noticed that the cobweb-covered rear window of the garage was unlatched. I knew right then what I must do.

  To the unevolved eye, what I did next might appear like a crime, but I would beg to differ. Crime requires premeditation. I say that because at no point had I intended for any of this to happen. It was not my intention to take the gun; it was something that I had to do—an important distinction that will no doubt be lost on whatever ambitious, politically-connected DA reads this.

  I took the broken lamp, thanked the old man, and went back to my small rented cottage and waited until late that evening, when I was sure the old man was asleep. Then I cut through the backyard to the rear of his garage and within a few minutes I had the Colt safely in my possession where it belonged. Early the next morning I loaded the ugly lamp in the car, hid the pistol among my other possessions as best I could, and left before dawn on my great adventure in the city.

  That was how I came to possess a gun. It was easy enough to purchase ammunition for it, and I watched some online tutorials on how to clean it. I told myself it was for my own protection in the city, but in the months since moving here it has grown into a huge, tumorous presence in my mind.

  That's the really terrible things about guns, I've learned: they want to be used.

  If I could have my way, of course, I would have used it on my coworkers at the nonprofit. Working an office job was no better than the suffocating bureaucracy of a provincial school system. Almost every day since starting there I have had conflicts with the others. But that is not important right now, except that during my months in the city I have had the opportunity to compare the two professions, and I've learned one thing that I had not considered previously.

  I said before that we are all born manipulators. If you don't believe me, then ask any schoolteacher at what age do children begin exhibiting signs of being manipulative, and they will tell you: almost instantly. This means that it is a normal and natural part of our development, an instinctual drive. But somewhere along the way our natural instincts are overridden, replaced by the pressures to conform, adapt, and mutate ourselves into society's narrow, self-serving framework.

  But as I have learned, our natural instincts can be overridden…although not overwritten!

  The truth hit me hard; so hard, in fact, that I decided to write what I hoped would be a groundbreaking work about school reform, intellectual rigor, and childhood development. My plan was to have a proposal out to publishers within one or two months, but after a few weeks of research I became dispirited by the dull genre of academic writing, and began to think of a more direct, honest, and dramatic way to demonstrate my theories. And that was when the answer walked into my view, literally.

  Since moving to my neighborhood I had often seen the same nanny walking down the street. The children in her care were particularly beautiful. I realize, in hindsight, that I was studying them before I was even aware of doing so; so by the time I was ready to implement my plans, I already knew quite a lot about their schedules, mannerisms, and general dispositions. I knew the nanny's languid pace, her general air of distraction, staring into the ever-present phone while brother and sister engaged in the usual contests and restless competition of siblings. How my heart bled for these children! They did not realize how lost they truly were, and probably never would. But to take a chance, to try effecting the change I wanted to see in the world, presented a challenge that my mind was soon eager to solve.

  I would have to get through to the nanny first. A formidable task, but not impossible.

  It took most of the autumn to gain her trust. During those weeks I always adopted the mien of a busy man: smartly dressed, moving quickly and always smiling, as if I had a secret that made the troubles of this life bounce off me without leaving a mark. I started by making eye contact a few times, then nodding and saying hello as I passed. I remembered not to wear a watch one day, so I could ask her the time, begging her pardon for the inconvenience. This led to occasional small talk, about the weather or how pretty the little girl's outfit looked—which induced outbursts of shyness from the girl, and for which the nanny would make her say thank you. One day I asked the nanny about her lovely accent, and she said the name of an island that I had not heard of before.

  I researched all I could about the island, and augmented my studies with general information about the Caribbean and West Indies. I even listened to that hateful steel drum music on YouTube, hours of it. It was valuable research, but I still needed something to move the plan to the next phase. As the holidays approached, I found a way.

  Early last week I told the nanny that I was planning my first trip to the Caribbean, and that to get in the mood I would soon be making Sorrel punch. She seemed impressed by this, and said that she loved drinking it at Christmastime. I told her that I would invite her over to try it when it was ready, and she agreed.

  Over the next few days I assembled the ingredients, and last night I made the punch. It wasn't too bad, and with some rum added it was quite delicious. This morning I called in sick to work, and spent the day in a state of feverish excitement, going over the plans countless times until this afternoon, when it was time for the nanny to bring the children home from school.

  Over the prior months I had slowly gathered enough information about her and the children's' schedules that I knew they would both have an after-school program, then go directly home at five o'clock to be there when their mother arrived, close to six. At a few minutes before five I went out to the stoop and waited for them, and soon enough they arrived. I was a familiar enough presence by now that even the children seemed relaxed around me, and waved and said hello when they saw me. I told the nanny that the Sorrel punch was ready, and that she absolutely had to try some right then. She hesitated, but I told her that in fact I would not take no for an answer, since I was still fairly new in the city and she was the closest thing to a friend that I had. I had calculated that my being an outsider would go a long way toward excusing any awkwardness about the appropriateness of my invitation in her mind. My appeal worked; and when the children urged her to accept the offer, all remaining hesitation fell away and she agreed.

  Once inside, the rest of my plan went more smoothly than I could have hoped. I gave the children some apple juice—their favorite drink, I already knew—into which I had dissolved a large amount of finely crushed Zolpidem, the generic form of Ambien. I made two batches—one with the sleeping powder mixed in, and the other batch without—in identical-looking pitchers in the fridge that only I could tell apart. One had a slight notch in the handle. That was the one I gave to her while I poured mine from the other. I did this by pouring one mug for her, returning the pitcher to the fridge to serve her, then taking the other pitcher and pouring my own. The nanny was none the wiser. I also had extra powder on hand, in case the children wanted something other than apple juice to drink, but luckily they both took the juice eagerly.

  I led the children to the den, where I put on
a cartoon channel and set them playing with various coloring books and toys I had purchased for the occasion. The nanny asked if I had any children, and I told her that I had a niece and nephew in New Jersey who would be visiting for the holidays. It was such a mundane sort of lie that she accepted it as truth without a second thought.

  I gave the nanny the punch, but could not get her to accept any rum for it. I hoped the powder would be sufficiently powerful to do the trick. The nanny took a sip and said it was delicious, and that it made her homesick. She was in quite a relaxed and cheerful mood by this point, and embarked on a long story about her "Tanti," who I assumed through context was her "auntie," and who apparently liked to "make style," whatever that was, and so on and so forth. When she finished her babbling I was able to persuade her to have another mug of the spiked punch. She had just started on the second mug when I saw the first yawn come over her.

  "Mus' be 'cause I'm so relaxed," she offered cheerfully. Then she cocked her head. "I don' hear de children. Dat mean dey up to no good."

  She started to rise but I urged her to stay and finish her punch. I went into the den and saw the two young ones passed out on the floor. I realized I would have to accelerate my plans, or risk being found out. I came back into the kitchen holding the broken lamp my old neighbor had given me.

  "'Ow dey doin'?" the nanny asked in her thick patois. She was fiddling with her phone, oblivious, as I came up behind her. I struck her with the heavy base of the lamp, and she cried out in a surprised groan. I hit her again on the back of the skull and she slumped over.

  It was no small effort dragging her to the bedroom, but I managed. Then I moved the children onto the couch. And that was when the full import of what I had just done hit me.

  What happens when our dreams come true? What do we do with them? Such was the dilemma I felt. Early in the plan's genesis I was so enamored of the essential rightness of it that I hadn't thought of what I would do once it had succeeded. Indeed, I thought that no escape would be necessary, since it seemed so obviously self-evident that the world only needed to see my example, my efforts to reach and teach these children in ways that had largely been lost and forgotten since the time of the Greeks. Yes, those great philosophers and poets expected their young charges to pay for their instruction in certain ways. What of it? It was not the act itself that harmed children, but the absurd overreaction by the matriarchy that secretly rules this country that causes so much damage.

  My euphoria gone, I was left with a growing doubt. How would I convince anyone of the truth and goodness of my actions? How would I explain the urgency? They would not believe that I had only done it to save those children from a much worse fate, and that any discomfort they experienced now would inoculate them from much greater, ongoing future pain.

  That was when I came into the front room to begin writing these thoughts. I know time is running out, that I must craft my defense with words, since it would be impossible and foolish to try to leave now. That is why I removed the pistol from the footlocker under the bed, where it has sat, cleaned and loaded, waiting for this moment.

  The children's mother should be home from work by now. She has seen that the nanny and children are not there, which means she will try texting or calling. I half hope that I hear the mother calling for them down the street, an edge of increasing concern taking over her voice—but in this age of digital things and invisible strings that scenario seems unlikely. I will go and get the nanny's phone, and see if there are any messages. Perhaps I will know what to do then.

  The game is now lost. What has happened, I had not expected. I went into the kitchen, since that is the last place I had seen the nanny with her phone. It was not there, so I assumed I must have dragged it with her to the bedroom. When I got to the bedroom I leaned over her unmoving body and felt for the phone. That's when the beast heaved her body around with alarming speed and struck me on the side of the head. Worse, she used the small table lamp by the bed, as if deliberately mocking my choice of weapon against her!

  I staggered backward and the nanny slid off the bed and crawled into the corner, where she dialed her phone and called into it that she was being held, to help her, please. She had given the party on the other end the street name and the nearest cross street before I had time to react. My head throbbed with unbearable shafts of pain. I stumbled into the front room, grabbed the Colt from the laptop table and went back into the room just as she finished her call. She looked at me with terror, tears now streaming down her face, and begged me to spare her as I squeezed the trigger.

  I cannot describe what a feeling it was—thick, powerful, manly. I suddenly understood so much; for the first time a beautiful clarity took hold, and for a few glorious moments I seemed suspended in perfect equilibrium, of soul, mind and body. (The great Greeks of old would have understood, and approved!) But just as quickly the blood drained from me and once again I was distressed.

  Now there truly is no escape; now there will be no understanding, no mercy. Even though she attacked me! Even though she used my own possession against me! New York has no stand-your-ground laws, of course. If I were in Florida or Texas I could probably persuade a jury, especially given the color of my assailant, but that does me no good here. If anything, it only makes my impending punishment worse. So much for justice!

  So now I wait, and type these last words. The minutes have seemed much longer. There is a sound coming from far away, but I cannot tell if it comes from outside or within me. I briefly considered silencing the children permanently but I refrained myself. Despite what anybody might say, I am NOT a monster.

  There is a commotion on the street now. Sirens. Men wearing helmets and vests fall into silent formations behind cars, around corners, trees. I can feel their eyes and scopes being trained on this place, this singularity in space and time. There is no way to explain except to type as fast as I can and to hope some decent and sane person finds this and understands that it is hopeless to be exceptional in this country. The tears form in my eyes and burn on the way down, disgusting and weak. I know there's only one thing left to do, as the figures dart across the street and approach the building.

  I saw how it was done once, on television. A supermodel, with a cellphone. How she held it up slightly higher, tilted down, and how she looked up at the lens to make the best shot. It slims the neck and accentuates the cheekbones, she said. It is the most flattering way. I will try it now. This is how they will find me. I will lift the Colt high, and give my best smile as I squeeze with my thumb.

  Say cheese.

  Thirty Dollars

  by Kate Barrett

  What I carried for Beau Jean never hurt anybody so far as I know. It never made anybody sick like coke or stupid like beer. I guess I never saw anybody take it, but Beau Jean said it wasn't for taking. It was for motherfucking application, get it? That's what he said to me. I'm not allowed to say motherfucking, but everyone else does, so sometimes, if Pops isn't around especially, I say it. It makes me feel powerful.

  Beau Jean didn't come from the neighborhood we come from. He lived even further out than we do, in the trailer park by where the highway curves. It's just a little bit away from the sign that says "Welcome to Eureka" with all the badges for the boy scout troop and old man clubs and all that.

  Mom says Beau Jean was trailer trash, but I don't know. Everyone at school calls me trailer trash too, but we live in a house, so I don't think it really means anything.

  He used to hang around under a bridge at the train yard like I did—where I'd go when Pops started yelling at Mom because she'd try on old dresses and makeup and say he smelled like booze, which he usually does. It's always on his breath and coming out his mouth and his nose. Even now that he can hardly open his lips.

  That's where I met Beau Jean, in the train yard under that bridge. It was last summer, so I didn't have school or anywhere to go, and Pops kept trying to teach me about the truck (which was dangerous, I already knew from the summer before).

 
; He'd yell, "Delilah get out here," and I'd have to go. There's no such thing as not going when Pops hollers.

  He wanted a son, so he tried to make me know all the boy things. I can show you the radiator and change the oil, and the tires on the truck are almost as big as me, but I can get them off if somebody helps me crank on the bolts. The trouble comes if I don't get what Pops is saying right away, like if it's something new, and that's when I know to make a break for it.

  I know some kids get hit, but Pops doesn't do that, he never has. He just yells so much his face goes red as a sun going down. Usually he starts kicking stuff over, and then his eyes tear up, so he drinks a lot of beer as fast as he can to make it stop. Probably the closest he ever came to hitting me was when I asked him why he cried all the time. He grabbed my face with one hand and said, "Look at me kid, this ain't crying." So I didn't ask him that again.

  It's pretty easy to make it to the train yard without anybody noticing, if you run fast. The trick is to cut through Mrs. Geiman's backyard since her fence is busted. Then you run past the big empty hardware store, cross the tracks, take a left and go up the biggest hill in town. It's only big because people built it for the bridge that crosses the yard. You have to climb the chain link fence at the top and roll down the hill on the other side to get to my and Beau Jean's spot. I didn't think anybody knew about it until I found him there last summer.

  Beau Jean doesn't have a lot except his mama's and his grandmama's and his great-grandmama's wisdom. He said they all passed it on to him when his mama kept having boys, dirty boys, mud-slinging boys, and he was the best of a bad situation. "I got a feminine sensibility," he said to me. I guess that's right—he's sort of skinny like a woman, and has long hands that are soft like a woman's, but he also has a short curly beard. He's so black, his eye-whites pop out, and he has even blacker spots on his face and arms. He says he worked the trains when the motherfucking Native Americans still shot arrows at them, and God bless motherfucking Native Americans for their divine sensibilities, but ain't it a shame they're all dirty drunks now. That would make him 100 years old, so I don't believe it, plus he lies a lot. I don't mind because he believes his lies like truth, and he never lied about the important stuff, like what he made happen to Pops, or if his stuff could kill.