by KUBOA
I sat down, Donald joining me after just a moment.
-That’s a guy used to date an ex of mine, he said, a memory of something amusing brightening his eyes, a chuckle to himself about whatever it was. He’s a good guy, good guy.
I glanced over, couldn’t pick out the exact person, anymore, from the clot of people, was startled by a waitress approaching the table, quite suddenly, kneeling down, arms folded on the table, the booth elevated enough she could rest her chin like this comfortably.
-Vernon didn’t quit, she said, pouty eyes up at Donald who flicked her forehead, leaving a brief mark of fading red.
-Where else is he gonna go?
-I can think of someplace he could go.’ She made a breath out, her lower lip up over her upper, slowly stretched herself back, got standing straight. I can definitely think of someplace else he could go.
Donald touched at her hip, just quick, brotherly—maybe this was his sister, I kind of wanted to ask.
-This is Roger, I met him earlier. You want me to tell him to beat up Vernon for you?
-Yes, she said, nodded affirmatively, sharp, at Donald then, her face melting into flirt, turning to me. Will you beat up Vernon for me? He’s a shift lead here, really gets out of line.
She was really quite lovely, I hardly listened to her, just watched her, felt so far away, so far far away from everything.
-I could do that.
-You’d be my hero, she said, schoolgirl, trying to coax me into giving her my favorite eraser.
-Well, sold then. Anything to be your hero.
Then, pop, her attention back to Donald, telling him he’d made a good choice, that I seemed a real gent. She looked over her shoulder at something, left us with some menus and moved off.
-Don’t go getting a crush, Donald said, taking a menu and handing me the other, she’s happily married and everyone gets the wrong idea about her, which is fine, flirting, but everyone goes too far, I hate it when she has to deal with a headache.
-Sure, I said, drowsily, eyes half closed. Sure. Like Vernon.
He made a face like he was considering if that was the same thing, then stood, told me he had to use the toilet, that I should order for him, that the waitress—he called her Whatshername—would know what he wanted.
-And just coffee this time, for me, but you get what you want.
I watched him, wondering what the thing was, watched him cross the establishment, get to the toilet, go right through the door without even looking to see was I still there.
I stared, fixated, could feel he was going to pop right back out, but the door didn’t open, didn’t open. I started to stand, tensed, sat, perched on the edge of the booth.
At the bar. That man at the bar.
I felt my stomach cramping, my ribs pinching me.
I could get to the door, there had been no better opportunity. Even if I just had a long enough lead time to get around a corner, another corner—he’d know my name, but that suddenly felt ridiculous to worry about.
No.
My phone. I touched at my pocket, then placed my hands on the table.
If he were to so much as open the door, I’d be done, I couldn’t breathe to take the chance. So, run to the door, dial and run—I could clearly identify this man, he would be arrested before he could do anything to me.
I started to breathe heavily, slunk into the booth corner to get a grip.
He wouldn’t have just left me in the booth myself—he’d picked this place, knew the wait staff, knew someone at the bar, who knows what he’d said to that guy—If he tries to leave, stall him, hit him, slow him up.
I tensed, turned as causally as I could toward the bar, the swarm there, hands and arms, heads all mashed in with each other.
Watch him, let me know what he’s acting like.
I still had no idea what was going on, who was involved, Donald wasn’t just going to let me walk away—if I’d taken out my phone then tried to hide it, Jesus, even if I hadn’t dialed the guy would tell Donald what he’d seen.
I looked to the toilet door. Closed. It opened, a different patron exiting.
Maybe there was another door in there, an exit out the other side—I try to get out the front door and that would be last of me, Donald just waiting there, nonchalant, to see if I’d chance it.
Was I actually just sitting at the table, waiting?
The waitress came up to the table.
-He ditch you?
-He’s just, I gestured, shrugged.
-I know that, hero. He wants his burger, right?
-Right. He said you’d know.
She was jotting on her ticket almost cartoonishly, I figured she was more writing a joke or making a dirty sketch than she needed to write out the order.
-And I’ll just have one, too, I guess, just a cheeseburger.
The toilet door opened, closed, no Donald.
-And he wants coffee, I’ll have coffee, too.
She said something, but I hardly heard, just nodded.
It struck me that maybe I could go into the bathroom, too, while he was still in there. Inside a stall, I could call for help, especially if he went back to the table.
I stood up once she’d left. Stood there.
I should go up to the bar, just to order a drink, just to see if I could gather anything from that.
But what would that look like?
He wouldn’t think I was getting a drink—I knew he would shoot me, here, in this booth, I almost felt the whole place would break into applause if he did it, too, he’d just Aw shucks, slink out, everyone thinking it was a big joke, forget all about my slumped over body, just assume I was waiting for him to come back.
***
The waitress had brought my coffee and I was a few swallows into it, wishing I’d asked for bourbon, as well, when Donald finally came back. He sat, scratching at his neck deeply, absorbed in the sensation, then seemed to notice his coffee for the first time, thanked me, started adding crème.
I overacted how tired I was feeling, an excuse to sit there, doped looking, trying to gather my thoughts. I just wanted to live—I felt there was someone chiding me, that I needed to defend myself against accusations, against this or that argument at what I should be doing—all I want is to live, guaranteed, and Donald is a maniac, he’s out of orbit, I couldn’t trust that anything I did that could appear against him wouldn’t put him off, push him over. It isn’t a game, I don’t get two chances—or rather, I still felt this was my second chance, that the shows of faith he was giving me were to be understood, acted on. I wished I could get him to verify this, wished I could say You see, I didn’t leave, weren’t you testing me? Had I tried, wouldn’t the waitress have stopped me, wouldn’t your friend have stopped me—don’t you see you can trust me? but that would be the most suspicious thing in the world to say. I even thought I should do a little game of pretending I’d just remembered about my phone, give it to him—but then this would seem crazy, he’d think it was a trick or that I’d already used the phone—or even just knowing that I’d been thinking about it, that I thought about the phone in terms of escape, this would put thoughts in his head and the next place we went or right in this booth the handclap of that little gun of his would burn through me.
-What are you thinking about? he said, nothing accusatory in his tone, an idle conversation prompt.
-I guess I was thinking about your waitress friend, I said, guess I was thinking would she really be happy if I beat up whatever his name was.
-Vernon?
-Vernon. But then you say she’s married. I don’t know, I’m just thinking.’
He shrugged, said he didn’t blame me, no worries there.
-She was married when I was with her, you know? So there’s nothing in this world written in stone.
I considered that, actually drifting into the make believe of the conversation.
-But I think she knew I wouldn’t give her any trouble, Donald wen
t on, that I wouldn’t jeopardize my own marriage, et cetera, didn’t want a headful of noise, myself. I don’t like to give people trouble.
-Sure.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but just then she brought the food, started saying something to Donald, stopped herself, left in a hurry, clearly busy with something and knowing she didn’t need to be at her professional best with us.
Donald started in eating, straight away, but I just picked at the thick fries, chewed them slowly.
My goal was to live and there was nothing to defend about that, I could no more save these people than anyone else being murdered, any time. And even if I could, why should it be at the expense of my life? Gwen would be alive, but I’d be dead? Ridiculous. Even if such a thing could be guaranteed, there was no balance to that—it made just as much sense that Gwen should have willingly died to keep me from having to die for trying to save her. Or I suppose I should think the best thing would be to be dead along with everyone else?
No.
No.
I knew I was showing all of this on my face, tried to lose the train of thought, Donald buried in his eating.
-I have a phone.
I just suddenly said it, neither with relief or with shame, just as flat as the words could be folded.
He chewed, swallowed, had some coffee.
-Alright.
-I just thought I should tell you.
He looked into his empty or nearly empty mug, then around for his waitress friend, set the cup down.
-What does it matter to me that you have a phone?
My stomach knotted, loosened, a nausea rising I tried to subdue by shifting my position.
-I just didn’t want you not to know. I don’t know why, it just occurred to me, I hadn’t thought of it and it just occurred to me.
The waitress brought some coffee and he asked her how things were going.
-It’s been alright, actually, I’m just seated with a lot of big parties, sorry to be so here and there.
He smiled, touched her hip again, she lightly gripped his hand, held it until she had moved far enough away it just gently, naturally came away.
-Well, Roger. I have a phone, too, you know? I don’t see what it matters. Then he grinned, made a pistol shape at me with his fingers. If you had a gun, though, I’d think now would be the time to mention it.
He didn’t lower his hand, like he had drawn on me, was waiting to see if I’d put my hands up, which I actually did, halfway, forearms out at angles, my elbows tucked to my side.
-I don’t.
-Still pointing at me. Well that’s good. You already know I do. Still pointing at me. You remember that, right?
I nodded, noticed my coffee had been refilled as well, took a swallow, then another, Donald finally lowering his hand, returning to his meal. I tried a bite of my own burger, but the texture didn’t seem right, I chewed it for five minutes, finally needing a mouthful of coffee to force myself to swallow.
Donald had a long nose, I focused on it, focused on the oddness of the length, like it was something else stuck to his face. His eyes were tired, obviously tired. He took the last of his hot coffee in his mouth, swished it cheek to cheek, told me to go ahead and pay, that the air would help, the air and a cigarette.
He wasn’t human anymore. The next time he slept, right before it, he’d kill me—it was impossible for me not to know that.
***
Donald let me duck into the space between some closed shops and an apartment building to urinate, he kept at the opening of the alley, I heard him lighting a cigarette as I moved into the dark.
My head was damp and heavy, but my thinking was getting less muddy, some anchor of sobriety was getting itself dug in, again. Two people had been shot dead right in front of me, so I wasn’t trusting myself to be clear headed, exactly, but I was tightening down on thoughts having to do with my particular situation.
Donald wasn’t getting distracted, wasn’t taking more chances with me, he was just coming to the end of whatever tether he had left, whatever his plan with me was, it would play out, one way or another.
I walked back to him and fell into step, it was no longer a matter of him holding the gun on me, our march was established, nothing to shame myself over or debate. If it came down to a struggle, I would die, I knew that I would—unless I got the upper hand and killed Donald, if it came to a confrontation, I would be dead. The eerie thing was how the fact that he lit his own cigarettes now, even standing three steps beside me, just left the gun in his pocket, indicated that he knew this too, knew that I knew it. As long as this didn’t come off as aggressiveness, though, it didn’t matter, as long as he knew that I was skittish, kitten in a corner, nothing mattered.
I imagined there must have been someone else before me, some other random stranger he’d approached, forced on this march at gunpoint. When he’d first approached me, all of his insistence about not wanting to repeat things, all of his reinforcing the rules of me getting him cigarettes, that was no longer the thing, he didn’t need to be strict with me, I’d gotten further than whoever had come before—they were dead someplace, there was no other way to imagine that outcome, they were dead someplace and I was them, now, whatever the role was, I was it. The pretense had fallen away and I didn’t know what it meant.
Did the fact that Donald seemed under the impression that it was utterly outside of me to see a handful of sharp broken pavement, grab it, smash at his head with it mean that it really was beyond me, that it wasn’t a possibility?
I didn’t know, just knew I wasn’t looking for opportunities.
We walked and walked, taxis moved by, we didn’t summon any and soon we were on those odd twines of roads leading to housing areas, parks.
-What time is it? I just wondered aloud, just said it, no reason not to.
-It’s almost one, maybe past one. It was about one when we left the restaurant, anyway.
And how long had this all been going on? Suddenly it seemed absurd. It was one in the morning, he’d accosted me just shy of seven o’clock in the evening. Maybe there had been nobody before me—how long could he have been walking around shooting people? How many people could he have to shoot? Or maybe if he had kidnapped somebody else, that had ended poorly, that had had nothing to do with this killing jaunt he was on, maybe he’d just wanted to walk, wanted something else and they’d made the mistake of trying to get loose of him.
Mistake.
Mistake. I couldn’t shake the word. I characterized that a mistake, trying to get away, but at the same time I didn’t fully admit that my plan was no plan—just walk, just walk and watch. If it came down to it, if the last moment was evidently upon me maybe then I’d get up the courage to take some action.
Maybe.
How could that only be maybe? Was I just hoping I’d be so worn down by then I’d not fight it, let it take me, a cold body vanishing into a warm bath of water?
Donald’s gait was now getting strange, automaton—he wasn’t zombie, not just a click clack, there just seemed to be no give to it, nothing natural, his thoughts focused on whatever it was taking us place-to-place.
He glanced at me, walked ten paces looking at me, let me get a yard or two ahead, watched me looking back at him, made a heaving up and down of his shoulders and started up after me.
There were stand alone houses, again, spread here and there, a neighborhood of hills and playgrounds and in the distance a community building with a high fence around what I figured was the pool, the pool or tennis courts. We got closer to this. Closer to this.
Donald sat down on a bench and I stood by, watching the ropes on an empty flagpole move in twitches from the wind, tight twitches, cold, ropes that would much rather be limp and still.
While he sat, he dug his heels in the ground, sometimes turning up a rock and when he did he’d take it up, rub it along his pant thigh, give it a halfhearted toss into the empty of the grass between us and the commun
ity center’s side wall.
There wasn’t any moon I could make out, but with my hands down in my pockets I craned my head around, searching the same spots of sky for it again and again, thinking stupid things, thoughtless poetics, how it was so weird that looking at the sky was seeing an area so vast it should stagger the imagination, but that the mind reduced that space to a single object, the sky, the space between that spot of trees in the distance and that, the distance between facing this way and seeing some wall and turning around and seeing a house vaguely off in the dark.
The sky.
If Donald told me I could walk away, what would I do? If he just fell asleep sitting there, would I try to do something to him or would I just leave?
No.
I didn’t want to think about doing something to him. But what would I do were he to say Leave. Go. Leave.
I looked at him, felt dead.
***
I’d sat myself on the grass, then laid out, the cold felt wet but I didn’t really think it was. I tried to have a cigarette while in this position, had to prop myself up on an elbow, get it lit. I could picture myself running, taking off across the field, picture myself falling from a shot to the leg, another shot to finish me soon to come. I looked at the rise and fall of my chest, my abdomen, imagined that laying out in this dark field I could take my last breaths.
Just because it was quiet, I knew nothing had changed, the situation was not humbly altering, my position and Donald’s had not shifted, rearranged.
I heard him get to his feet and call out Hey you, give me all your money, and I heard something in response, a voice getting closer. I lazily sat up to see Donald getting a cigarette lit as a man dressed in uniform approached.
A policeman?
The thought gave me a sudden headache, my breathing got rough, immediately resettled. Just a night security guard, probably patrolled the neighborhood, maybe sat at a desk or in a little sub-room of the community center in between rounds.
-You in the doghouse, Donny? the guard asked, making a very purposeful blow of smoke this way and that, head lolling around.