FEROCITY Chapter Four through Eight

by Michael Callinglast

  “Well guess what?” he says, grinning. He dangles the keys to Rhonda in front of me.

  “All done?” No freakin way!

  He nods.

  “Edvard! You know what? I dig you man! Seriously! Come here and give me a hug you stanky little schwab!”

  He comes walking back whistling a silly nursery song, pleased that I have recognized his talents.

  And here’s what gets me. Edvard. As far as I know he only owns the clothes that he’s now wearing. That’s all I’ve ever seen him in. I’ve never seen his face clean. And his breath stinks, his auto shop is a disaster. All that and more, but this jerky’s always happy. Always whistling something merry like he’d just won the lottery. Me, on the other hand, I’m pretty okay in the looks department, I’m doing all right with money, and I’ve dated some moderately attractive girls, but I’m miserable. So miserable. Almost all of the time too. So why is he so lucky?

  “You married, Ed?” I don’t think he is. What kind of wife would allow him to live the lifestyle that he’s racked up for himself.

  “Ah” Ed says, grinning. He gets the look of someone about ready to fondly reminisce. “Once, Jacky. A beautiful woman named Nora, from Chile, if you can believe it. I met her at me brother’s wedding. She was one of the bridesmaids an’ she was on a green lawn, sunlight in her dark hair, smiling at me like I was the one thing in the world she had wished for. I knew I loved her then, at that very second, in May, on that afternoon. I didn’t think she’d-”

  I can’t picture Edvard as a young man and this means either I have a rather poor imagination or he’s lying about it. I can’t see him with clean white teeth, unwrinkled skin, youthful eyes, standing tall with the importance of young muscle girding his spine. And I can’t imagine a young woman willingly reaching out to hold his hand, kiss his lips.

  “-her dream. I should’ve listened but I thought that I knew wh-”

  In Dr. Perry’s nihilistic book on relationships he presents a quiz on whether you are in a healthy relationship or not. Question number 7: Can you reveal to each other things that might be embarrassing or humiliating? But Dr. Perry, most of the humiliating things that happened to me lately have been because of her! And when we were together I swear all I did was embarrass myself.

  Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be about her. If this was a movie it’d be my movie. Her movie would be called...

  TULLY DOOM! In all capital letters with the foreboding exclamation point. Or, Le Succubus, or How Keira Anastasia Mercile Destroyed The Universe, Part One, directed by Tim Burton, musical score by Danny Elfman, filmed in stop-motion animation, ala The Fantastic Mr. Fox.

  “And so,” Edvard says,” that’s what happened.” He looks teary eyed.

  “Come here,” I tell him, waving him closer. “You need a hug.”

  He hesitantly allows me to put my arms around him and this is a new experience for the books. He feels like thin copper pipe wrapped in beef jerky, smells like rust and... strangely enough, chocolate chip cookies? No, that can’t be right. Yes. Yes he does smell a bit like chocolate chip cookies, only made with a lot of vanilla and a hint of...

  Edvard pulls back and gives me this weird look.

  “You smell good.” I clap him on the back and go find my Rhonda in the lot.

  #

  Monday morning.

  How to Establish a Healthy and Loving Relationship tips, as featured in Dr. Max Perry’s douchey mauve book. Tip one: Speak a little less and listen a little more. Maintain effective communication and your partner will be more open, more trusting, and thus, so will you.

  This guy actually gets paid to write this stuff. I mean, was he listening to a John Mayer song as he came up with this?

  That’s it, I’m asking Danielle out. It’s a beautiful day out, a bit misty, but generally good enough to-

  “Hey.” And speak of the devil, it’s Danielle.

  She’s walking towards me with a flare of sunlight twisting around her keychain like diamonds. Her walk is a slow stride, full of confidence and elegant poise. She’s not as good looking as Keira but this is not her fault, although she does look like a girl on a Revlon commercial.

  Danielle smiles at me and I wonder what she’s like? How she kisses? Whether her hair will be soft or whether it will tangle in my fingers. Her sense of humor, her laugh, and us walking in the spring, holding hands, me looking down at her, her smiling up at me. Will she be sexually adventurous?

  But she doesn’t even like the Beatles or Pink Floyd.

  So what? She can learn, right? It’s not like I was born liking them either. Maybe she just hasn’t heard the right songs.

  There she is, smoking. Blond hair hanging down in her eyes, one leg resting against the brick wall, listening to something on her headphones, foot tapping. Yeah, so what if she doesn’t like the Beatles.

  “Hey, Danielle.”

  “There he is,” she says, “the Artist.”

  “Wow, you look good. Really good.”

  She laughs. “Well thanks. You look good too.” She’s blushing.

  I shrug. It is always a plus to be humble. She’s smiling at me, biting her lower lip, head tilted. Man I want those lips.

  Okay Jack, remember what Dr. Perry said in his Sensitivity book. Women like it when you notice them.

  “So I just happened to notice that you’re wearing my favorite pair of jeans. They have some sort of sparkly stuff on them.”

  She smiles.

  “And I also happened to notice that you’re listening to music. Now I know you don’t like the Beatles.” I pause and let the last sentence sink in.

  She shrugs.

  “You can disagree with me if you want.”

  “I’m not really a Beatles fan. I loved their Yellow Submarine song when I was a kid though. My dad used to play it all the time.”

  “Shit.”

  “So you ready for Pauletto’s mid-term tomorrow? Man I can’t believe what a beyatch she’s been lately.”

  “Oh I know. You can tell she’s a community college professor.”

  We both laugh. We’re becoming a famous duo already. Our laughter dies down and we’re standing here like a couple of awkward naked teenagers. And for the life of me I can’t think of another thing to say. What is there to talk about that she could possibly be interested in? There are tons of things that I’m interested in but I fear all those subjects are far above her intellect.

  “Yes?” she says, eyebrows raised.

  “Uh, oh right. Listen, you like Modest Mouse?”

  She stands up. Yes, I have your attention now. Thank you Modest Mouse.

  “I love Modest Mouse!” she says. And the heavens open up and all in the world is grand and buoyant.

  “Well they’re coming to the Paramount next month.” This is true. Tickets went on sale last weekend and quickly sold out, and I don’t have any tickets, but I’ll tackle that problem later. “And... well I was wondering if maybe you’d like to...ah... go with me? You know, you and me... to the show.”

  Smooth. Real classy Jack. You’ll never get laid again.

  She’s silent.

  I light my cigarette, shake out the match, toss it. A few people walk by and I nod to them a whazzup, fashizzle.

  Okaaay.

  She should’ve said something by now.

  Well this is uncomfortable.

  “Jack.”

  “Hi.”

  “Jack,” she says, “you do know that I have a boyfriend, right?” She smiles apologetically.

  “Uh, actually no. No, I didn’t know that. It never crossed my mind.”

  “Yeah. Allen. He’s a fireman.”

  Fireman?

  “Well, let’s see.” This sucks. I am so embarrassed right now. There has to be a way to salvage this. “I mean, well it’s not like I’m asking you out now. Next month. I doubt you’ll still be with this guy next month.” I half-laugh.

  She just looks at
me.

  “Okay, well keep it in mind. I’m just going to go over here and... read.”

  #

  I’ll never understand girls. And I can’t compete with a fireman. That’s the closest thing a girl can come to dating a real super hero. How in the hell did they meet? Do I want to know?

  Fuck.

  Pauletto’s class. Luckily we’re watching a film so I can shrink down in my chair and pretend I’m not here.

  Wait a second. Hold the fucking phone! Is that... is that Val Kilmer narrating this film?

  It is! It is Val Kilmer!

  “THE DOORS!”

  More than a few people in class jump but who cares. That’s the movie that I wanted her to see. The Doors. A fucking classic!

  “Jack,” Pauletto, “are you okay?”

  “Peachy my good woman.” I pull out my phone, flip it open, and press Keira’s number. I text her.

  -Hey. The Doors! That’s the movie I wanted you to see. Directed by Oliver Stone, starring Val Kilmer. I know how much you like Kilmer. It’s his best movie. Okay. Bye-

  Okay.

  Pathetic probably. I shouldn’t have sent that. It’s not like she’s going to reply. Besides, even if she doesn’t, she will see the Doors, only because Val Kilmer is her favorite actor (?) and when she does she’ll have no choice but to think of me.

  The Val Kilmer in question is now talking about Italian architecture.

  My phone blings. It’s her. She texts me back; Ok. I’ll check it out sometime. How are you doing?

  “Like you fucking care!”

  “Shh!” Pauletto.

  I’m not replying. I’m not. I’m not going to text anything that will alleviate her guilty conscience or do anything that might make her feel better. No way.

  Maybe a simple text.

  No. No. No.

  So I text back: I’m doing great! Awesome! School is going good. How are you? Are you seeing anyone? Anyone special?

  I hold my thumb over the ‘send’ button. Do I really want to know if she’s seeing anyone special?

  Val Kilmer’s voice drulls on.

  Fuck it. I press send. There, it’s on its way. Seeing anyone special? There’s nothing I can do about it now. She won’t reply. I don’t really care if she does either.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tuesday. The bank’s your typical late seventies building; white stone, non-influential design, tall and quickly molded. A revolving door out front, canopy for the rain.

  I park about a block away, on the opposite side of the street, and sit.

  Something doesn’t feel right. I try and tell myself it’s just the skitterish nerves that Vic’s warning’s have stirred up. I mean, I did the job for them. A million dollars. It should be nothing to them. Ruttleby’s dead. They got what they wanted.

  It’s a standard Seattle day. Gray skies lacquered over the horizon, a few seagulls dancing with the pigeons around the buildings, traffic consists of cabs and Volvos, men in suits mingling with women in skirts and blouses, all hustling their way through the day. Business as usual. So why are my hands sweaty?

  It doesn’t look like an Indians’ bank. I’ve been here five minutes watching and all I’ve seen are professional white people. No dark guys with black braids, no bolo ties, no turquoise. Maybe this is the wrong address.

  It looks like a pretty high tech sophisticated bank too. This means that they undoubtedly have metal detectors at the entrance, and armed security guards. So I’ll have to leave my guns in the car.

  It’s ten after nine. I have mid-terms in Pauletto’s class in an hour and a half. So, Jack, let’s just get this shit over with. Get in, get rich, and get out.

  Just inside the bank there’s two towers that people pass through, detectors, and two chubby guards with revolvers at their sides standing like frumps.

  Velvet ropes on brass stands over the marble floor guide people to where they need to go. This way to Loans, Customer Service this way, over here to the Tellers. Three tellers so I get in line of the most attractive.

  Her name is Darcy. Good name. I’m giving it five points. She’s blond, so I subtract five points. She’s at zero and we haven’t even been formally introduced.

  “Hello, welcome to Skylark Bank of Nations,” Darcy says. She has that Bank-Teller-Smile; charitable yet impersonal. “How can I help you?”

  “Howdy, Darcy,” I tell her, leaning on the counter, “and I mean that.”

  “Okay.”

  I slip her the paper with the account information and withdrawal slip. “Just this, darlin’.”

  She smiles, takes the paper, and let’s her fingers chatter over the keyboard.

  And there is not an Indian in sight.

  “So how’s your day going?”

  “Good.” She’s reading something on the monitor. Darcy with the nice breasts and the silver pendant around her neck, I bet she’s a chai latte drinker. Her eyes narrow, she whistles, looks at me anew, and grins. “You’re withdrawing it all?”

  I’m planning on distributing it into three accounts, but I think I’ll play with her a bit.

  “Yeah, that’s why I brought two wallets.” Tip her a wink. “You know, I’m throwing a party later tonight, Darcy. I would be thrilled if you could make an appearance.”

  It’s amazing the amount of confidence a million dollars can give you. I feel like George Clooney.

  She laughs. “Okay. We’ll see. Now, there’s no name on the account.”

  “What?”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “It just means that our account manager wants to talk to you. This has happened before. Let me call him.”

  “Okay, but seriously, I’m on a schedule here.”

  She nods. The phone’s already to her ear.

  “Hello, Mister Cochran? Hey, this is Darcy. Good, good. Hey, I have a mister...” she looks at me expectantly.

  “Tide. Jack Tide.”

  “A Mister Jack Tide down here regarding account 007179518. Okay. Yes. Will do.” She hangs up.

  “I’d like it all in ones.”

  She smiles briefly, a mere acknowledgement. “If you could step around and follow me. Mister Cochran will take care of you from here.”

  Her voice has changed from friendly to professional.

  We pass several desks, personnel (no Indians) and stroll into a long hallway full of closed door offices. She stops at this large door at the end of the hallway with a gold plaque that reads; K. Cochran, Accounts Manager. She knocks.

  “Come on in.” A friendly voice.

  Cochran’s a full-blooded Indian. His hair is short, combed nearly pompadourish. He wears his tailored suit perfectly and stands with assurance. When I think of the type of man who wears a suit and tie like him, and the glasses, I don’t think of Indians. I think of Italians.

  “Jackson Wellesy Tide,” he says, moving around his desk. “Good to finally meet you.”

  His handshake is light, non-threatening.

  “Have a seat,” he says. He walks back around and sits at his desk, tilts his monitor, and pulls up my information.

  His office is large with a nice view of downtown Seattle. There’s a picture of him and his family on the shelf, along with several rows of books. Most of the books are about banking but a few are personal preference. Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, The Art of War, Song For A Dead Planet, and The Rubicon.

  “Okay Jackson,” he says, “wow, looks like you are on your way to becoming a millionaire. How’s it feel?” His laugh is high and friendly. A Hotchkiss laugh.

  “Good I guess. So I’m going to deposit it into several banks. I have the information h-”

  He stops me. “Hold on. Have you thought about banking with us? We offer an outstanding income and growth portfolio where 60-70% of your assets are allocated into bond funds that guarantee-”

  These guys scared me? This guy? I must’ve been out of my mind. Vic is going to love this story. Here I’m thinking they�
�re going to try and kill me and what do they do, try to solicit my business.

  “Mortgages,” he says. “If that’s what you want. You see those new condos going up on the lake-shore? We can offer you-”

  I tune him out. Let him finish his spiel and then I’m out of here.

  “Actually, Mister Cochran,” I tell him after I realize that this is a huge sales script that he’s following, “I really have to go. I mean, I’ll consider it and all, but seriously, I have-”

  “Mid-terms,” he finishes for me.

  The oak clock on the wall ticks and tocks.

  “Uh, yeah. How did you know?”

  He taps the monitor. “It’s all here, Jackson. At any rate, if you could follow me for a second, I think you should really talk to our chief financial operations manager. He’ll deposit the money in your account and then you’ll be free to go.”

  Free to go. Something about that sentence.

  He stands up and opens the door. Waits.

  Okay. This is strange. So I follow him.

  We walk down a narrow hall and this is where the bank hides all the Indians. They look like tan versions of professional white people, holding thin laptops, walking with purpose. Also, they look at me with surprise like- what’s he doing here? I feel like the new kid at high school.

  We go to the elevator and Cochran presses the L2 button. He waits, smiles at me, and whistles.

  “Is this going to take long?”

  “No,” he says.

  The elevator doors bling open. Muzak. An Elton John song badly done. It will be stuck in my head for the rest of the day.

  “So how do you like working for us?” Cochran asks. He takes his glasses off and shines them.

  What? This guy knows?

  “It was fun.”

  He gives me a look that reminds me of getting in trouble in elementary school, by the principal.

  “Well it had to be done,” he says. “Senator Ruttleby wanted to vote on a bill that would hamper future Native banking ventures. None of our political action committees were of any use so…” he shrugs, makes a gun with his fingers, and laughs. “Sometimes such an impasse requires a… germane solution?”

  The elevator doors ding open and the hallway is long and greenly lit. We walk down to the second door and Cochran presses a button, speaks into the intercom.

  “Hey, this is Cochran. I have him.”

  I have him?

  The door buzzes open and we walk in.

  Fuckin’ A! It’s that same goddamn death-room! With the drain in the center and everything. Yes, there’s the table and chair and-