Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  “I know that life is struggle, and it will throw enough shit at you until the weight brings you with it into the sewer. But you have to face it.”

  A group of tourists he hoped would soon pass had cameras pointed everywhere, as if they hoped chance would catch an interesting angle. Every photo would get paraded on Facebook, Instagram, or whatever other self-promoting monstrosity people followed now, each picture hash-tagged into incomprehensible mush.

  They made him nervous.

  Leo remained rooted to the spot on which he landed to keep Joshua's nerves jangle-free. He craned his neck around to make sure the beeps at his outrageously parked car didn't turn into a line long enough for a cop’s interest.

  Leo wished the boy would move to the side so he didn’t have to squint into the sun, but the teenager had no manners. Joshua squeezed his shoulders in – left no room for the world. Leo nevertheless attempted to pry his way in.

  “It’s hard, I’m sure, that you love my daughter, knowing she’s way out of your league.”

  The truth pinched the boy’s face. His shoulders scrunched a little more – his internal organs couldn't withstand his bones collapsing in on them like this, surely. The tourists moved on to leave only the sun to over-expose each of them.

  “I’m not going to give you sympathy, Joshua –”

  The kid hurdled the railing before Leo could do anything. His heart jumped and rolled, and steadied only when Joshua positioned himself, arms back and wrapped around the iron. His heels perched on the ledge, toes beyond the precipice. Leo approached with slow, careful steps.

  “Don’t come any closer, Mr Bratson, I’ll jump.”

  That’s what they all say. If he meant to jump, he’d have done so. The boy sought attention. Drama queen. He had threatened suicide a number of times. Sally arched an eyebrow each time she told her dad. That eyebrow showed enough emotion to tell him of her concern. Joshua had attributes Leo couldn’t decipher, but the boy had cost his daughter feeling he didn’t want her to spend on him.

  “What is it you think I’ll do?”

  “Sally told me you’re a hard ass, that you do things …”

  Leo stopped like concrete had set his feet. His ex-wife punched his memory. Two black eyes stared defiance at him – told him all the talent he had lay in his fists. He couldn’t remember when he began his attempts to control Tamara, or why. Vodka had dimmed many of the memories, and he searched hard to remember if his girl had seen any of the punches he laid on her mother. He couldn’t recall any moment she had. Maybe Tamara had told her the stories. His past still made him cringe – caused his innards to shrink until they hurt, like Joshua’s now. She had worked hard to transform him. He paid her back in bruises. She eventually had enough and kicked him out. “You had your chance to be a man,” she spat. “You never made it. Now get out of my fucking house.” Her words had violence which overpowered his physical strength. She didn’t leave him. She forced him to leave her and Sally.

  Every day, bar the odd lapse, had been a journey to become a good man. He wouldn’t allow Sally, even with her mother’s spirit, to find herself this man’s punch bag. “I can change him.” Like he represented a conundrum rather than a threat.

  “I’m not going to do anything to you. Joshua, please –”

  “All I want is –”

  “- a little respect?”

  Joshua turned. Embarrassment at his whines turned to a flicker of a smile at the near rendition of the Aretha Franklin classic. Leo took advantage of the in-moment and reached his hand out like the boy hung from a cliff.

  “Sir, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He didn’t take Leo’s hand.

  Leo puffed his cheeks and ran a hand through his buzz-cut. Wished the sun would dip further before his eyes frazzled blind.

  “You’re nineteen. Respect doesn’t come because you wish for it. You have to earn it. Sally has already earned scholarships, been abroad to work all kinds of crazy jobs, and helped a lot of people do a lot of things. Joshua, seriously, what have you done to come even close to matching that?”

  The boy sighed and shook his head, as if his experience stood on a pedestal above the older man’s. “You’re so new money, sir. They’re just hoops newbies have to jump to get into the club. I don’t need to do any of that.”

  Leo realized his mouth had opened like a vacant tunnel. He set his jaw back into place, hard.

  “Does she love me?”

  Leo worked hard not to reply through his teeth. “Yes, she does.”

  “But you don’t know why?”

  The wind rolled into the bay balled like a fist before it hit them. The Beastie Boys print on Joshua’s raggedy t-shirt had faded as if the kid sucked its original aura dull. It flapped from his bones like the huge American flag on the pole which towered above Leo’s brother’s car showroom, only scraggier. The kid had no meat to him, physical or mental. He had blue eyes which dazzled in his favor, enough to hypnotize even Leo for a few moments when they first met. Sally always talked about them. Her chocolate-drop buttons fired, but her dad could only tut. Blue eyes only took you so far. Right now, they had taken him to the edge of a bridge, above water which might any second incorporate them into a deeper blue. God surely intended this boy to have little pinched ferrety eyes, the sort that squinted for scraps. Those Caribbean sky-eyes ill-fitted such a character.

  He liked to think that Sally had finished with Joshua, but they had split three times already – because of his wild fists. They always got back together because he remained her project. Now – another split. How could her sharp, inquisitive mind not recognize the loser within? His fingers twitched.

  “I have things only I can give her.” Joshua’s lips bowled upwards.

  “I don’t want to know, I really don’t.”

  Leo didn’t know if Joshua laughed because of his prudish reaction, or a memory had surfaced. The kid needed to forget about his daughter.

  “Let me give you a job.”

  Joshua craned his neck back at him.

  “What kind of job?”

  “A job.”

  “I don’t want to sweep floors, or any of that stupid shit.”

  “You want to run my accounts?”

  “Really?”

  “Of course not, Joshua, of course not.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m not offering you a position on the board, just a job. Pretty low to start, but who knows …” He’d worked hard to make his construction firm well-known and respectable – it irked that Joshua might represent it in any form.

  “Why?”

  Leo didn’t know if he could keep his face to the sun any more. He didn’t dare creep closer so he could turn his head away from the glare. Even though he suspected this all theater. He checked the platform behind. The tower’s shadow had deepened. He couldn’t see his car until his whited-out eyes adjusted. The traffic had thinned, but he knew it was only a matter of time before a cop passed by. There’d be calls to the station to report his car. No doubt some would suggest the vehicle’s owner floated broken-backed in the water below by now.

  “I’ve been where you are.” Leo turned back to Joshua. “I know what it’s like to feel as worthless as you’re feeling right now. But, you get back on the horse and work like a pig, and that worth comes back.”

  “I don’t know. It depends on what job you’re offering. You’ve not said, yet.”

  The bottom of the sun dipped into the horizon. Its reflection melted into the bay. Leo stared into its blaze until his eyes watered and dripped. Joshua loosened his grip on the railing. A gust of any strength could cause disaster for the boy. He examined the older man. His eyes widened at the tears.

  “Mr Bratson, sure … I didn’t mean to be picky or anything, it’s just, I want to make a name for myself, I can’t be sweeping up or something stupid like that. What would Sally think about me doing menial work? Please, don’t cry for me.”

  Ah, that’s what the funny look is all about. Leo milked the moment, drag
ged tears with a run of his index finger, head bowed for a second to hide the effort to squeeze out more.

  “Of course I’ll take it. I’m honored to work for you. And –” He sighed through a sentimental smile Hallmark would reject. “ – it might make Sally proud of me. And we can get back together. Deal.”

  He held out one hand. Waited for Leo to grasp a confirmation.

  Leo glanced behind his shoulder as he stepped forward. The tower now blocked a view of them from the road. He wiped his watery eyes with his left hand and took Joshua’s offer with his right. He held it tight, searched how much life emanated from the kid’s grip. More than expected. Good, the kid saw a future and its possibilities, even if he wanted all its rewards immediately. He loosened his grip, pulled away his hand, then pushed the boy back, and let Joshua’s gasp hit and bounce off his conscience as the boy fell like a dummy. He watched until the splash threw water into the air, knowing his neck would have snapped on impact. He nodded, satisfied the kid would never toy with his daughter again.

  The sun had produced enough moist around his eyes to greet the policeman who had pulled up behind his car, tugging up his pants as he emerged from his patrol car. The cop checked out the plate and mumbled something into his two-way radio.

  Leo called the officer as the cop clocked him, his voice wrought enough for conviction. He’d need to keep it up for Sally.

  Getting Home Late

  “What the hell happened, Evan?” My wife Sally writes another worry line across her forehead.

  “I…” I show my palms because I don’t know where the fuck to begin.

  Actually, I do.

  I had just picked my girl Marie up from daycare. Her happy babble in the backseat calmed me from the rage which always burns me from New Jersey traffic. Fuckwits who rubber-neck at a crash that had as much drama as a Phillies baseball game. Idiots who refuse to stagger when a lane ends. They all make me want to just turn my wheel at an opportune moment and send them through the barriers and into a tree, or the highway below this or that bridge. Grrrr-fucking-grrrr.

  Then I have to contend with Sally, who since she decided I would be the sole bread-winner, now spends her isolated hours painting over-wrought pictures nobody wants to buy, and continually freaks about our daughter’s safety. Just because the girl stood at the edge of a reed-strangled pond that time I’d turned my back for a moment. One minute late and I’d get it in the ear. I had to find a way to convince her to get back to work before my love ran off a cliff.

  My mood lifted as Marie sang stuff I always crow to her on our car journeys. A bit of Elvis, a bit of Blondie, a bit of Faith No More. She makes my ears sing.

  That good feeling didn’t last. The red Porsche caught my eye immediately in the side mirror. I’d turned onto the long slip-road to I-295. A trail of cars choreographed behind me. As I got close to the median between the oncoming ramp to I-295 and the highway I’d left, this rat-faced squirrel-fucker indicated to get in front of me. The prick had no chance, he should have got in line way back – the line didn’t stretch enough to induce such impatience. I put my foot down and cut that donkey-fucker off. Left him screeching as he veered to the left to avoid the dividing barrier.

  Ha … I broke into song. My girl repeated a line. She mirrored my whoo-whoo fist-punch – a cute little curl dropped over her left eye.

  It must have been four or five miles down 295 when the red car slid into view in the side-mirror, fifty-or-so yards behind and in the overtaking lane. Only he didn’t attempt to get by me. I could have shifted to the left to get in front of him so I could flip a middle-digit in the rear-view. My girl prevented it. Plus, I knew I’d be late home, by at least five minutes. I might have to buy some plaster to fill the cracks in Sally’s forehead. It would look like a platform of mangled railway lines tonight.

  Every time I took my hands from the wheel my Honda veered to the right. Felt like a flat. Great. Spending unnecessary money on a new tire hit worse than Sally’s tut-tuts right now, so I took the next exit and pulled up on a gravel patch. Corn bordered both sides of the road. I pulled myself out. Averted my eyes from the tire. Dreaded to see dollars slip from my wallet.

  My concern drifted, focused now on the motor which pulled up behind my car. Its red paint gleamed hot under the sun. One foot emerged from the Porsche, as polished as the car’s paintwork, followed by another. The man stepped out as if he glided, helped no doubt by that smooth silk shirt.

  “Whoa…” I said. “There’s no need for that.”

  The man walked like a robot, a handgun by his side, stopped arms-length from me, and planted its muzzle on my forehead. I could only see myself in his mirrored-glasses. My eyes goggled.

  “Daddy?”

  The man’s neck snapped his head to my daughter. My girl … she made this man back away, leaving only a vowel imprinted on my head. He shushed his lips with the muzzle and screeched away.

  ***

  “So?” Sally asked.

  She didn’t need another worry line.

  “I got a flat, that’s all.” I smiled and formed a few lines of my own.

  Pop Star Burger Van

  I used to love the smell of fried onions, but now they get right up my nose. Not as much as people like this, though.

  “Are you Adam Callen? Thee Adam Callen?”

  I put a beam in my smile the best I can, but I know it's slanted down toward the sad burger I fry for him. The wind whips around my burger van and flips the old Pepsi cup over. Plastic cutlery sprawls across the counter. The man laughs.

  “My sister loved you. She loved the whole band, but she loved you in particular. Always said she'd marry you. Wait ‘til I call her. Adam fucking Callen, her pop idol – all washed up, serving burgers and chips. I'll have extra onions on that if you don't mind. Don't skip, thank you.”

  He has his phone out of his pocket. Holds it like a hot brick from his excitement. I hope he drops the bloody thing and smashes it to bits. A queue has formed – a snake with this tosser its venomous head.

  “Don't take a picture of me.” I put my palm out to cover my face. I don’t want to see myself splashed across a Then and Now feature in a cheap rag for some former fan to gawp at while she has her nails done.

  “Why not, mate? You too good for a picture with us common folk?”

  “You're not taking a picture of us, you're taking a picture of me. Fuck off, will yer?”

  The man blasts a bunch of shots. His mouth screws like he's eaten shit with sugar on. “All your palm.”

  I slide the burger I'd managed to finish towards him. “Here, take the burger. On the house.”

  “I can't take that on the house. Here …” He fishes for cash and pulls out a fistful of loose coins. Loads of pennies and tens. Plants them on the counter and loses me some custom as he counts and recounts. “You're down on your luck – you need all the dosh you can get.”

  “No, I don't.”

  A couple behind laugh. My cheeks twitch. I could cope with the music press mocking me back in the glory days, but not this. Friday nights under burger van strip lights bleach me of the colour that once shone across me during our tours. Girls screaming. Throwing their scent at me in the form of knickers and bras.

  “All that money you must have made.” The man chews on his burger. I hope it soaks up the alcohol and makes him realise what a twat … no, here he goes again … “You invested it all in this van? What a waste. The burger is shit, by the way. How the mighty have fallen.”

  “At least I made the heights, pal. What have you ever reached, apart from the depths of your own arse to find a speck of pleasure?”

  Part of the line guffaws. Someone claps. I manage to break through a grimace this time and enjoy a broad grin. My face usually resists these days.

  As the human stain skulks away, I notice how much weight he packs. How his arms might uproot an oak tree if he fancied it. I throw another burger on the hot plate, smile at my next customer, and snatch a grasp on the cricket bat I keep by my side. Hum
an old tune of ours, about how my girl is an angel. I understand, now, that it drips with more sentiment than this burger did grease, but back then I sang it with all my heart. To avoid a life like this. The tune turns sour as I rip open the next pack of burgers.

  I rest my fists on the counter. The sizzle on the grill cracks a few beats. Loosens my fingers until they splay out. The tune comes back to life. I've still got it –

  “And when you look at me that way, hey hey,

  I can only soar out to the end of the bay,

  Because it's what's inside that counts,

  And you have it, babbbby, you have it to the top of-fff the mount – ain.”

  A woman shouts down the line. “I loved that song. Absolutely loved it. You've made my night, mate. Thank you.”

  Life isn't so bad. There are more people like her than that tosser. This burger transforms into a culinary masterpiece, at least in my eyes. I'm on a roll. I flip a whole ton of burgers, sizzle a whole garden of onions, and listen to mustard and Tommy ketchup squirt across my creations. I glance up and follow the lights up the walls of the Town Hall, Sheffield’s finest building. Makes me buzz. A local patriot. I forget about London parties, the screams from girls, the hot mothers – and the few who wanted to play away.

  I forget for a bit.

  “Here he is … here he fucking is.”

  The man with the tree trunk arms has brought a branch back. His friend’s hands shift about his pockets and sides for want of a pint.

  “I don't know who he is.” His friend examines me with glassy eyes. I pretend I haven't seen them and continue to hum an old tune to entertain my punters.

  “Adam Callen. Was in that boy band.” Tree trunk gets pissed his pal doesn’t recognize me.

  “What boy band?”

  “Bloody hell, I can't remember. They were an X-Factor type of band.”

  “Ah, come on, Frankie, I don't know any of that shit. I like my Sabbath and Zeppelin. I wouldn't know a boy band from a Debenham's dummy.”