Genuinely Dangerous

by Mike McCrary

  I’ve never spoken to Tisha again, not since the ruckus that night. There was a rumor floating around she found God, or something that resembled a higher power, shaved her head, and lives with a secluded cult in Montana or Oregon or Northern California. Another rumor is that she left the country and is currently snorting, blowing, and bonking her way across the universe.

  Both sound plausible.

  The Girl, the one I spoke of earlier, remained a friend through all the wives, including my unholy union with Tisha D. She talked me off the ledge more than once and did it all without judgment or a flicker of self-righteousness. No idea how she accomplished that. Plenty there to judge. I judged the hell out of myself on more than one occasion. She was truly unbelievable. Gave me a place to stay when things got crazy at home. Fed me a home-cooked meal here and there.

  We talked.

  Never asked for a thing, no matter how much her husband hated me being around. The Girl married somebody safe. He was an engineer or a data-something or the vice president of paper clips. He loved golf, grilling, organic foods, and fantasy football. All the boxes checked. Bet he knew who Tisha was. They moved to a place much like the one where I live now. She ended up marrying that guy a week before I married Tisha. I took Tisha to the wedding. She flashed a beaver on the dance floor. Tisha would never live where I am now. Love to see that though. She’d bang Rick into a coma. Make the dog join in for fun.

  That Tisha, special girl.

  The Girl was special too.

  I know I’ve said that. Indulge me, please.

  She and I haven’t spoke in a while either. Too embarrassed. She’d never go the way of “I told you so,” but still, she did try to tell me. Waves of shame made me not want to talk to her after I got out of rehab. The court “recommended” I attend a program after the incident with Tisha at our marriage domicile. The place got me off the drugs, allowed me to clear my head. It did not, however, end my thirst for the sauce or help me put my failures into proper perspective.

  Doubt that’s clinically possible.

  Did switch booze allegiances, moving away from the vodka. I stick with scotch and the better whiskeys now. Beers are fine here and there, but I get confused with beer these days. IPAs, craft beers, Belgian wheats—I don’t know what the hell to order. Getting a beer in LA became a social statement about who you were as a person. I paid a twenty-year-old assistant to give me a list of five or so beers that made me look like a writer with a firm sense of who he was as a beer drinker. If all else fails, I do dig my wine.

  Old reliable.

  Come to think of it, J-something and I had a bit of the red.

  The Girl wasn’t a huge drinker, but she did like her wine on the right occasion. One night, way before even the first wife, we had a red wine night. Just the two of us. The wine flowed and we talked and talked and then talked some more. There was a moment between us. A pause. A look. I turned away, changed the subject like a perfect coward.

  Perfect asshole.

  The what-ifs kill you.

  What-ifs bleed you slow.

  A big-ass what-if named Lucy left me a voicemail not long ago.

  I stare at the large red number one on my phone. My head drifts toward thoughts of the good things in life. Fighting to hold on to thoughts of what’s possible for me. What can still be. I think of Lucy. My second film and the thing I don’t talk about. My sight slips into a blur. Edges go soft. Eyes take on heavy weight. The booze is winning.

  The phone slips from my fingers.

  28

  The Pope stands in Bergen Street station waiting.

  Nervous as hell waiting for someone to show. Looks like he’s been there awhile. Impatience plastered across his chubby face. He scans the area again and again. The station is mostly empty.

  A half-drunk couple gropes each other.

  A homeless man rambles on about The End being near.

  The F roars by.

  The Pope watches, trying to make out the spattering of faces as they pass. They whip by at blinding speed. He turns back.

  A man dressed all in black is a few inches from him, his heavy boots shine like mirrors. The Pope never heard him coming. Ozwald is wearing blackout wrap shades and a black ball cap. Just about as nondescript as you can be. Perfect for pain-in-the-ass innocent bystanders and nosey security cameras.

  The Pope is instantly terrified, losing his trademark bullshit bravado he had on display with Jasper. He’s shaking from merely being next to this man. Ozwald simply cocks his head. The Pope fumbles into his pockets, pulling out a Post-it note, and hands it to the man. The Pope holds his breath, hoping for the best. Anything is possible at this moment. He’s heard all the stories. He had a front-row seat for some of them. Memories still shake him awake many nights. The Pope knows this man as Ozwald but wouldn’t even think about calling him by name.

  Ozwald doesn’t bother looking at the note. He turns, slipping out into the dark shadows of the station.

  A train rips by.

  The Pope’s lungs find some air.

  Heart about to blast from his chest.

  Meeting up with Ozwald and living is a good day.

  He gave Ozwald the instructions on where to meet that douchebag movie guy with the money. It’ll be up to Ozwald what to do with him. “Fuck it and fuck that guy,” mutters The Pope. They can cut Jasper’s throat and drag him behind a car for all he cares, just as long as it isn’t him.

  The Pope is still drawing breath.

  No idea for how long, but a life measured minute to minute is all that matters to The Pope.

  29

  Idiot.

  Me.

  Idiot.

  The idea that the best part of your life is over is a tough one to stomach. Even tougher is the idea you’re the reason it all ended. It’s the kind of thought that can take root in a person’s brain and grow into a mangled shit-tree stronger than oak.

  Hate that idea.

  Much rather swim in some nice, warm, good old-fashioned denial. Blissfully floating along thinking life is a journey not a destination and that I’m not really at fault. More that it’s the universe that has mapped out a plan and I’m not really responsible for plotting the course. A destiny. A cosmic explanation that helps a person digest all the shittiness that life has in store. Or, if you prefer, you can simply dance along your personal little timeline and be confident in knowing somehow it will all work out just as long as you stay positive.

  Sounds nice.

  Comforting.

  It’s complete bullshit. I’ve become confident the universe is hell-bent on finding the most amusing way to flush me down the comic toilet.

  My head’s drifting again.

  I’ve created stories from nothing, pulled from the thinnest air and have erected them into film. Standing monuments that will be around long after I’m gone. If a man is going to think like this, then that man (meaning me, of course) has to at least try and view the past with some sense of balance. There was bad and good. Well, not bad necessarily, but without question there were times that were less than ideal, and the good was up for debate. All fair to say, and you could make strong arguments no matter what side you choose.

  The opportunities I had?

  Those millions I made?

  Relationships that went shithouse?

  No matter how optimistic I try to be and no matter how much I attempt to invoke the power of positive thinking, I keep coming back to this one simple idea—I fucked it all up. I lived a life of drugs, tuxedos, booze, flip-flops, cash, lube, stained sheets, more cash, wine, women, and songs poured out through speakers that cost more than my father made in a year. A porn star, as well as the booze, drugs, lube, and orgies, almost killed me. Still, be a nice way to check out. Be honest, would you rather punch your ticket in a pile of oiled-up bodies tipping back a bottle of Ketel One with a snout full of powder, or would you rather slowly erode in a hospital bed covered in your own filth?

  Off your high horse, friendo.

  Wil
son Gains comes to mind for some reason.

  The lectures he gave when we were kids. Jesus, the lectures, the soapbox chatter, I can hear it now. The righteousness. Even as a child, he would constantly, incessantly tell me how I was doing it all wrong. How I should be doing things—everything. Didn’t matter what it was. A paper airplane, cowboys and Indians are better than playing war, how to tell a story, how to tell a joke, what boobs look like, and most recently, lecturing me on my failures in life through the magic of cinema.

  The balls on that guy.

  Having a hard time remembering why we were friends in the first place.

  I know what I’ve done. I was there for all of it. Not a perfect example of the human species, understood, abundantly clear. I will never give a speech to a middle school recommending the life I’ve led. I am a confused man with an “attraction to disasters,” as Alex puts it.

  Fully acknowledged.

  There’s an overwhelming mountain of shit I should have done differently, or at least better, but I didn’t and here I am. Standing where I am now.

  It’s the what-ifs that kill you. What-ifs will bleed you slow. But you know what?

  It’s never too late for a second chance.

  Which is precisely why I’m standing in a park in the middle of the night with a shady guy called The Pope waiting for a pack of potentially lethal criminals to arrive.

  30

  My bag is full of equipment and assorted clothing.

  I’ve put a few stacks of cash in there for personal folding money and, more importantly, to show I’m for real, I have the cash. The green. The cabbage. Dead presidents. Benjamins. Dough. Bread. The cheese. Cheddar. Smackers. Moolah. Bones. Clams. Flash cash. And my favorite…

  Fuck-you money.

  The Pope is smoking like a chimney. Pacing at an impressive clip. This clown is more nervous than I am. That makes me incredibly nervous.

  “Hey. Yo, The Pope. Where’s your people?”

  “Be here directly.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yup.”

  Looking toward the sky, I let my eyes lose focus, taking in the enormous darkness with flecks of stars poking through. Knew a guy in LA who kept a picture of Earth taken by the Voyager 1 space probe. The Pale Blue Dot, the photo’s called. Our entire world is only a tiny little speck in a vast sea of dark space. Our plot of land populated with the human race in its entirety is simply a dot in the grand canvas of all things. The floating storage unit containing everything, all our accumulated bullshit, drifting in an endless black soup.

  I told the guy that was depressing as all hell.

  He looked at it differently. He found great comfort in that picture. No matter how stressed or worried he got about life and all that heavy-duty shit, he can look at that picture and realize it doesn’t matter. None of it. If Earth is only a dot, just a tiny thing filled with NYC, LA, celebrity gossip, debt, cum, cancer, love, hate, and cheeseburgers, then how can anything we do here on that dot really matter?

  I get it, but still, I think that’s damn depressing.

  My thoughts slide from questioning our universal insignificance and the perceived pointlessness of the here and now. As I look down from the limitless night, I find that five masked individuals have circled around me. Their boots shine like mirrors in the moonlight.

  I never even heard them coming.

  One of them cuts The Pope’s throat.

  Back to the pale blue dot.

  * * *

  PART II

  “Crap has always happened, crap is happening, and crap will continue to happen.”

  —Chuck Palahniuk

  31

  None of them say a word.

  All five masked men stand silent, like tombstones.

  Ten eyes split the night, boring through me.

  The wind whips.

  The cold bites at my skin.

  The Pope bleeds out.

  I’ve never been more intimidated in my life. Pretty sure that’s what these people had in mind. Absolute intimidation. They’ve done this before. The man directly in front of me, I’m guessing the leader, steps forward, stopping about a foot from my face. Not a complete violation of my personal space but it’s rubbing the edges. Leaves crunch under his boots as he digs in. I can feel his warm breath—a surprisingly fresh-smelling man. He removes his mask. He’s American, European maybe, fortyish with the looks of an angry construction worker. There’s a strange-as-hell spider tattoo on his face. As I take in his features, it’s clear this is a man of discipline.

  Control.

  Harnessed aggression.

  He’s got at least two inches on me plus a good ten pounds of muscle. Fine, more like twenty. His tight black attire doesn’t leave much room for fat. Giving the rest of the crew a quick scan, they all seem to be in top physical condition as well. This is a tightly knit group. Their skills have been honed. Each knows his role, no one is talking over another, and no one is suggesting a thing. No, it is abundantly clear the man in front of me has the mic and isn’t looking for questions from the studio audience.

  We stand in silence with only the wind disturbing the peace, pissing off the resting leaves in the trees. Ordinarily this would be a nice, peacefully pleasant evening. Save for the five members of the apocalypse committee surrounding me.

  My new friend and I have been standing here in this close proximity for a full two minutes and he has said nothing. Not one damn syllable. I remember a producer telling me once that in a negotiation the person who talks first loses.

  I’m guessing this man in front of me has heard that same nugget of wisdom. We can’t do this all night, can we? Will we be standing like this heading into tomorrow? The sun will come up, and we will all be standing here having not said a word all night. I can count on The Pope staying out of this. I remember that producer who gave me the advice on negotiations was an incredible liar who fucked me on several points, as well as trying to fuck Tisha, so I decide to break the conversational seal.

  32

  “Did The Pope tell you anything?” I ask.

  “Yes,” the man with the spider face tattoo says.

  “Okay. What did he tell you?”

  “Prefer to hear it from you.”

  From the edges of my periphery, I see the moonlight bounce off the barrel of a gun held by one of the other men. I did speak first. Losing already. Fucked that up. Add it to the list.

  “I’m a filmmaker.”

  “So you say.”

  His words are carefully chosen. Chosen to demean and disrupt. Gets you questioning yourself, unsure, on edge, and unable to get your footing. His tone and delivery are a master class in ice-cold precision. He gives you nothing, while you almost want to give up everything. Combine that with his size, the pack of his armed buddies circled around me, and the blood pooling underneath The Pope, and I’m not only losing confidence in myself but I’m also really, really concerned about my place on the pale blue dot.

  “I’d like to film you and your friends here,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I want to make a film about what you do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? I think it would be entertaining to a mass audience—”

  “No. Why should we let you?”

  “I have money.”

  “So you say.”

  “A goodly amount of money.”

  “Help me understand goodly.”

  The one with the gun presses the barrel to my temple.

  I try to do my trick of removing myself from my situation. It does not work. Here to stay. Mind cemented in the moment. People take all kinds of classes to live in the here and now. Be one with the present. This is me breathing, and all the like. All I want to do is go running and screaming with arms flailing into Lake Denial. I wrote none of this down on my little yellow legal pad during my preparations. Wish I had. Then perhaps I could have anticipated the urine running down my leg. Hopefully these fine masked folks won’t notice under the cover of darkne
ss. Even in this moment of unbearable tension, I can’t help but be upset I’m not getting any of this filmed.

  Nothing more cinematic than violence.

  What’s wrong with me?

  The barrel of the gun gets pressed harder to my head. I bend my neck to lessen the pressure.

  The man in front of me cocks his head to meet my eyes. “You were talking about goodly?”

  I raise my hands.

  My lips part, about to speak, with no idea of what I’m about to say.

  A warm spray scatters across my face.

  33

  I snap one eye closed and grind my teeth.

  With one eye open, I see the masked one who was holding the gun to my head drop to his knees on the grass. His fingers are fumbling at the sharp end of a large blade that is poking through his throat. The blood looks black in the night. As he crumples into a ball, I can see the handle of what looks to be an ordinary kitchen butcher knife sticking out from the back of his neck.

  The circle of five, now four, breaks. Separates.

  Someone new has joined the party. A man with wild, searing eyes stands over the twitching body. He pulls a gun, putting a bullet into the skull of a masked one at close range.

  The living members of the circle are now at three.

  I can’t make it all out. It’s a blur of violence under the moonlight.

  A storm of chaos has rolled in. Hurricane Aggression just slammed into the coast.

  A bat bashes into the head of one of the masked men.

  An axe plunks into the chest of another.

  The badass, fresh-smelling man with the spider face tattoo is now facedown in the grass, being beaten to death with what looks like a metal pipe.