Thrown Away

by Kenneth Szulczyk

  Then each abode has their peculiar type of homelessness. The drunks and drug addicts live in the boxes and sleep on park benches. The people staying in tent cities and RVs are folks down on their luck, holding onto the thin strands of civilization. Then the absolute crazies live in the sewers and tunnels under the city, and those people are the dangerous ones.

  ***

  After two months since I had torched the police car, the police keep harassing everyone.

  Whenever I walk around downtown, I often see a squad car. My heart always races while my mouth becomes dry. My winter hat becomes damp around the forehead while a cold sweat covers my face that the cold winter wind tries to freeze.

  On February 1, I walk from the library to the Rescue Mission for my sack lunch

  A police car screeches to a halt five feet in front of me. Then two police officers just stare at me as I walk by. I just lower my head and pretend I don’t see them.

  A week later, the skies darken early around 4 o’clock while the snow pounds the ground. I walk along a sidewalk on my way back to the factory and almost shit my pants as a spotlight blinds me.

  I raise my right arm to my face to block the light.

  While squinting, I see the silhouette of a police car farther up the street with two laughing shadows inside the car. I look down and continue walking along the sidewalk towards the police car while the spotlight remains on my face.

  Once I pass the car, one officer says, “Should we bust him?”

  “Nah,” the other replies, “It’s a waste of paperwork.”

  Afterward, I head home, and the police leave me alone.

  Chapter 4

  Then in mid-February, the police shot an unarmed black teenager, and the community erupts into violence.

  I’m not aware of this as I sit in the library, skimming through several books. Around seven, as I walk outside, I hear a large crowd screaming in unison.

  My curiosity leads me to the downtown near city hall. As I turn the block, I see hundreds of people standing outside City Hall, screaming, “Justice for Marcus.” As they chant, they pump their signs up and down in the air. I read several signs - Murder is illegal – arrest the officer, Hands up – Don’t shoot, and Justice for Marcus.

  Small children huddle close to their parents and hold signs, such as My generation is next.

  Then I watch the other side and see a solid line of police officers wearing riot gear. They are standing shoulder to shoulder with a baton in one hand and a shield in the other. They march in formation like soldiers. In front of the officers, an armor plated vehicle advances towards the crowds.

  I turn and return the way I had come. After making it one block, I turn around, and see the armored vehicle and police march towards the crowds.

  The police fire tear gas canisters that fill the streets with white, thick smoke. Then a commotion breaks out. People start screaming. Windows are shattering. Protesters hurl firebombs and Molotov cocktails in the air. The bottles explode as they hit the ground. Other bottles strike the building facades, igniting rings of fire that try to climb the walls.

  Two officers grab a protester and throw him on the ground, near the corner where I had stood. They stand over the protester, beating him with batons while kicking him on his sides.

  Flashing lights and sirens from police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances fill the evening air.

  I shake my head back and forth, in denial of what I had just seen. The police had declared war on the people.

  The police have forgotten that respect symbolizes traffic along a two-way street. If they would treat people with respect, then the people would respect the police more, but instead they treat everyone like stray dogs they can kick around and brutalize. Then the police militarized themselves and accumulated armored vehicles and weapons to intimate the people, utilizing force to keep everyone terrified, quiet, and in line.

  Instead of heading home, I walk to the police headquarters that lies four blocks over. I figure few police would be at the station since the police are busy with the protesters.

  Walking past the new jail building, I stop to observe this six-story monstrosity. The building is a standing tower filled with tiny, narrow windows along its side like missing scales around a serpent’s body. Then a chain-linked fence surrounds the property with barbwire draped along the top.

  I walk to the police station – a two-story building with large tinted windows. A chain link fence surrounds the back and sides, but the front of the building lies outside the fence.

  I notice a large gap between the fences between the police station and the new jail. I walk between the fences and smile when I see the back area filled with bushes and small trees. Then farther, a row of abandoned factory buildings forms a solid line behind the jail and police station – a bygone era when this city was an industrial powerhouse.

  I smile after seeing where the police park their squad cars safely within the fence.

  I head home and approach the old factory around nine and see Bob sitting outside waiting next to the door.

  As soon as Bob sees me, he jumps out of his chair and yells, “Dude, I thought you got caught in the protests.”

  “No man, but it was bad. It’s a war zone down there.”

  “I saw the news. The reporter says the protesters looted the downtown businesses and set everything on fire.”

  He pats me on the back, “I’m glad you made it back in one piece.”

  “Me too.”

  Then Bob picks up his miniature TV, and we both watch the screen.

  The reporters show the protesters smashing window fronts and grabbing merchandise from the stores and businesses. The TV camera pans left and captures a protester throwing a firebomb at the armored vehicle.

  I notice the reporter never plays the footage where the two officers are beating a protester near the street corner. The news only shows the protesters’ wrongs while the police are serving their duty to protect the city.

  ***

  I don’t believe in killing people, but I want to strike back at the bastards who killed Nathan. I decide to step up the game and send those corrupt police a message, especially after the police squashed the protests. I constantly think – how can I strike back? I scavenge for parts here and there throughout the factory.

  I search the factory thoroughly. I see discarded car relays lying near a loading bay. In another part of the factory, I discover an old dusty box filled with narrow black rubber hoses.

  Then one day, after getting my lunch, I return to the library. As I walk near the auto parts store, I see a small box lying on the ground. I pick up the box, open it, and remove an electric fuel pump. I slip the fuel pump into my pocket and toss the box into the trashcan in front of the store.

  Then I walk to the library and pull several books off the shelve. I read books on basic electronics and physics, and I constantly think what type of device could I build?

  Then I return to the factory with the fuel pump. Then I remember seeing an old car battery outside. I carry the battery to the storage room.

  I take a coil of wire, cut off a foot strand. I remove the insulation from both ends. I tie one end to the battery post. Then I take another wire strand and do the same, and attach it to the other battery post.

  I touch the wires to the contacts on the fuel pump, and the fuel pump whirs into life. Then I check the relays. When I connect the wires to the first relay, I hear nothing. For the second and third relay, the relays made clicking sounds.

  Every day, when I walk to the city, I always think of what kind of device could I build. In each pocket, I bring several parts.

  I study in the library until dusk and walk to the police station to hide the parts behind the police station. I hide the parts in three thick bushes near a row of trees.

  After two weeks, I had hidden two coils of wire, an old grill electronic igniter, two relays, the fuel pump, and a large coil of black rubber tubing, along with tools and miscellaneous parts.
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  On Saturday, I walk to the hardware store near downtown. As I enter the store, the clerk behind the register squints his eyes and frowns when he sees me, but he remains silent.

  I notice two outdoor patio lights lying on a shelf. They are shaped like a rock, battery operated, and on sale for two for $9.99. These lights automatically turn on when it becomes dark outside. Then I buy two different flashlights with two different brands of batteries for my new stuff.

  After leaving the store, I take the stuff behind the store. I remove the packaging and deliberately scratch up the plastic on everything to make it look old. I do the same for the batteries.

  I spot an old oily rag near the dumpster that someone used to wipe oil and grime off a car engine. Then I utilize the oily rag to the soil the new parts.

  I toss the packaging into the dumpster. Then I wipe the batteries with the rag to remove my fingerprints and insert the batteries into the patio lights and flashlights. Then I place my new parts into the bag one by one.

  I return to the library and wait for the evening. Then I hide my new parts behind the police station. I smile because now I’m ready.

  ***

  I make my move on Sunday night, when everyone quiets down after partying on Friday and Saturday nights. I know few police patrol Sunday night as the town settles down to start the work week the next day.

  I put on my thick winter coat even though it’s mid-March. I head to the storage room for the red gas can filled with a flammable liquid.

  I hold onto the gas can in my right hand inside my coat and walk to the downtown. About every fifteen minutes, I sit down and take a break. After reaching the city, I walk behind buildings and dumpsters to take a break.

  I reach the police station and become ecstatic. Everything is quiet, and most police cars are parked behind the station in a neat row along the fence.

  I walk behind the police station and hide the gas can behind a tree. Then I get my parts one by one and start putting my device together.

  I cut the rubber hoses into 10-foot strands, and I plug the end with twigs from the trees and use a pin to pierce small holes at the end.

  I take the grill igniter and take it apart. I tape the piezoelectric igniter to the end of the hose and connect wires to it. Then every six inches, I tape the wires securely to the rubber hose.

  I don’t have another igniter for the other two strands, but I plug the ends and jab small holes at the end.

  I coil each rubber hose in a ring and attach each hose to a plastic splitter. Then I insert the splitter into the fuel pump. And I cut a 20-foot rubber strand and connect one side to the fuel pump and slide the other end into the gas can that I had hidden inside a bush.

  A pair of headlights slices through the darkness.

  I duck down and scoot near the bushes.

  A police car pulls into the parking lot and parks at the end of the row of cars.

  Two officers exit the car and head inside the police station.

  I wait five minutes and continue building my device. I take the first patio light and break the bulb. Then I attached wires to the light bulbs’ filaments and connect them to the fuel pump.

  I get the other patio light and do the same. I break the light and attach wires from the filaments to the igniter.

  I grab a flashlight, turn it on, and place it in my pocket.

  I use a long tree branch to slide the rubber hose with the igniter through the fence and slide it under the police in the middle row. With my other hand, I hold a rag around the hose to wipe any fingerprints as the hose passes through the rag.

  I slide the next black hose under the police car next to the car with the igniter hose and the last black hose under another police car on the other side.

  Then I use the rag to wipe the fingerprints off the flashlights and patio lights.

  I pause for several minutes. I watch the police station by turning to the left and observe the jail. Then I look behind me and hear nothing.

  I take the flashlight out of my pocket, cup my hand around the bright light, wipe it clean of fingerprints, and place it against the light sensor for the patio light that triggers the fuel pump. I cover the flashlight with a thick old towel I found to block the light.

  Then I place the other flashlight against the other patio light that activates the igniter. I click this one on and place another heavy towel over it. This flashlight should shine longer than the other.

  I look at my device in the darkness and smile. I bend down, click on the patio lights, and use a rag to wipe my device. Then I wipe the gas can and tools, ensuring I leave no fingerprints behind. I don’t need the tools anymore and I toss them into the bushes.

  I feel so alive as I walk between the fences between the jail and police station.

  I stop as I approach the end of the jail fence. I scan for traffic and police entering and leaving the police station. I see nothing. Everything is quiet on a Sunday night, or at least so far.

  Then I walk along the sidewalk towards the downtown.

  I walk towards the old fire station. I turn and look around. Although several dogs bark in the distance, not one person is walking along the street.

  I slip on my gloves and pull out six tire spikes that I had made from old beach sandals three days ago. I took three beach scandals, removed the strips, cut them half, and pounded thick nails through them at different angles.

  I toss the tire spikes long the dip in the driveway where the fire stations’ driveway meets the road.

  Then I walk home. I know I have returned late. As I approach the factory, everyone is sleeping while several people are snoring out of sync, like horny frogs croaking for female companionship around a small pond.

  ***

  I awaken late, around noon. I slip out of the sleeping bags and leave the tent.

  As I rise, Bob says, “Have you heard? Someone bombed a fleet of police cars last night.”

  I look into Bob’s eyes, “Wow! That’s incredible!”

  “You know, I went looking for you last night and couldn’t find you.” Then he twitches his head up and down like a parent who knows the child has done something wrong and questions whether the boy will fess up and tell the truth. “You wouldn’t know who done this, by chance, would ya?”

  “No man. That’s asking for trouble.”

  “The police are calling it an act of terrorism.”

  “Terrorism huh. Like what the police did to the protesters last month?”

  “If they catch you, they may do to you like they did to Nathan.”

  “Perhaps that shouldn’t be so bad. Could death be worse than being homeless?”

  Bob just smiles and adds, “Very well then. Perhaps those bullies needed a lesson or two.”

  I return his smile, “Well, someone got’s to be the teacher. How else can someone learn?”

  The End.