A Bad Day Part 1

by Thomas DiMauro

  Finding his small day pack, he tossed in a couple of waters, protein bars, and binoculars. With one hand on the doorknob and one foot out the door, he hesitated.

  He patted the Spyderco folder in the hip pocket of his jeans. It was there, and he took comfort in that, but these days he needed more along with him. He trailed inside to his desk.

  Searching through his keys, he found the right one and opened the lock to the top drawer. Pulling it all the way out, he slid his hand under a stack of writing pads in the back and came out with a blued Walther PPK in a pocket holster.

  After verifying the magazine and chamber had ammo, he tucked it into his inside vest pocket.

  The knot in his stomach lessened as he headed to his truck. Tossing the pack onto the passenger seat, he climbed in and turned the key. Silence. A couple of coughs, then another pause. Just as he thought he wasn't going anywhere, the engine started. Not good.

  The battery neared the end of its life but he hoped it would last until next payday. He pulled out of the driveway and aimed toward his favorite hiking spot, a two mile trail ending at the top of Black Rock Mountain. Black Rock wasn't much of a mountain as far as mountains go. It stood only fifteen hundred feet high, but since not much else stood that tall there was a good view of the river valley and town.

  When he reached the parking area at the base of the slope he rejoiced in the empty lot. Hiking wasn't a social activity for him. A walk in the woods meant getting away from everyone. He climbed out of the truck and took a deep breath and stretched.

  Gusts of wind moved through the trees making branches sway and leaves show their undersides. The sun hung low in the sky; its light filtered through the forest and cast long shadows. In the distance he heard a clap of thunder.

  Should he risk the hike? The weather seemed to be changing rather quickly. A mountain top was the last place to be during a thunderstorm, yet the promise of peace pushed him forward.

  Walking up the gentle incline, he felt a wave of calm wash over him. After a few steps, the morning light turned gray and the breeze turned cold. He stopped in the middle of the trail and cursed the sky.

  Another loud clap of thunder nearby startled him. Then something hit him. The sound of leaves being pelted rang throughout the forest. The drops stung a bit too much for rain.

  He noticed the large marble sized hail on the ground everywhere when he turned to hurry back to the truck. Then it came down in earnest. He slid off his pack and held it over his head as he ran. Reaching pavement, he skidded on gravel and twisted his ankle. His boot saved him from a serious injury.

  The sound of hail hitting the metal and glass of his truck made him flinch. He jumped in and pulled the door shut, exhausted and out of breath. A few chips in the windshield hadn't been there before and the front hood sported numerous shallow dents.

  Tossing his pack aside he found his keys and prayed the truck would start. On the first turn, it purred like a cat. He searched his brain for places to find cover and remembered the gas station a short distance away.

  Pulling up to a gas pump as close to the door as possible he cut the engine and looked around. The storm wound down minutes after it began. But the damaged done shocked him.

  He got out of his truck, and in the midst of breathing a sigh of relief, pain pierced his ankle halting breath in his throat. He hobbled into the GasMart and walked straight to the refrigerator case.

  A tall, handsome Indian man in his twenties with bright white teeth and razor stubble beard stood behind the counter. He broke into a grin the minute Turnello walked in.

  "How you doing, sahib? That's some shit," he said raising his voice so Turnello could hear him. The man, whose name was long and unpronounceable, thought Turnello's name was equally long and unpronounceable so they had taken to calling one another sahib.

  "Yeah, sure is, sahib," Turnello replied, staring into the refrigerator at the big bottles of beer. He gave them an angry, fearful look as if they had just called out and insulted him. He grabbed two from the case and headed to the register.

  "Give me one of those egg sandwiches and a couple of Advil, sahib," he said as he clunked the beers on the counter.

  The man looked at the bottles and his smile faded. He took a foil wrapped sandwich out of the glass case, found a packet of pills, and put them down but hesitant fingers hovered over the register.

  "I thought you didn't drink anymore, sahib," he said.

  "Now don't go acting like my momma, sahib, and just ring me up."

  "Okay, okay, sahib. No problem,” he said forcing a smile and giving a little sideways nod.

  Jim - Morning, Mon Sep 2nd

  Later that Monday morning, Jim Mulrooney gathered his things for a business trip to Philadelphia. On a small bedroom table, arranged in neat spreadsheet like rows and columns, lay the contents of his pockets.

  He performed this pre-travel ritual with the same disciplined meticulous way a good pilot would go over his preflight checklist. He inspected everything as if his life depended on it.

  Driver's license, expiration date good. Check. Platinum American Express, expiration date good. Check. Platinum Visa Card, expiration date good. Check. Premium AAA membership card. Check. Picture of his daughter Brianna. Check. Cash. Count it. Twenty-five crisp twenty dollar bills. Not good. He hated odd numbers. They couldn't be divided evenly. Anxiety twisted his gut. Get another twenty. Twenty-six twenty dollar bills. Much better. So it went until his wallet could be reassembled. He hoped his daughter, who would be heading back to school later, didn't wake up and interrupt him or he would have to start all over again.

  He didn't need to leave until later in the day but he didn't like being rushed with these things. He could take the one hundred thirty mile drive unhurried, with plenty of time to stop for more coffee and stretch his legs along the way.

  He would check into the hotel in the afternoon and then go for a swim. Later, he would browse a bookstore and then treat himself to a nice dinner. He would need to relax because come Tuesday morning he would have to be on top of his game. This corporate acquisition would be brutal and he needed to be prepared for anything unexpected.

  He slipped his wallet into the front pocket of his Perry Ellis shorts. Checking himself in the mirror he adjusted his Lacoste polo shirt until it looked perfect. With his garment bag and briefcase all set to go, he needed a big cup of coffee before he set off.

  He set his bags in the kitchen and put his travel mug under the coffee maker. After grabbing a k-cup he placed it in the unit and pushed the brew button. While the machine did its thing he loaded his suitcases into the trunk of the car. He got back to find a cup of brewed coffee waiting. With six sugars and lots of milk, it was ready to go.

  Jim got in the car and began backing out of the driveway. After rolling halfway to the street, he stopped and ran inside to make sure he had turned off the stove even though he never turned it on.

  Then he returned to his car, backed down the driveway a few more feet and stopped again. This time he checked to make sure he had locked the front door, he walked away, turned and checked it again, walked away, checked it again, walked away and with a tremendous force of will made himself get into his car and drive away.

  Just for good measure, though, he drove around the block and passed by the house again making sure it was still okay.

  Ninety minutes later he pulled off the highway and into a rest stop to get gas and take a break. The only good thing about driving through New Jersey is the gas is cheap and you never have to pump it yourself. Once he gassed up the car he pulled into a spot at the roadside mini mall.

  Two spaces over sat a beat up old copper-brown hatchback filled with junk that looked like whoever owned the car lived in it.

  A few yards away, two men sat silently across from one another at a picnic table. The older man, gaunt with long, greasy, squirrel gray hair, wore shorts and a threadbare t-shirt. He straddled the bench facing the parked cars.

  He brought a burning cigarette to his th
in lips and Jim noticed his ice blue eyes continuously scanned people walking by.

  The much larger, younger man had curly black hair with a blue bandana tied around his forehead and a small mustache. He wore a sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves and sat facing the older man with his massive arms folded across his chest looking annoyed.

  The moment Jim noticed them, stepping from the car, his insides went from relaxed to vigilant in an instant.

  Maybe he overreacted. Lots of people milled around. It was the middle of the day, out in the open. In fact, the more he thought about it, he couldn't see why he had any sort of reaction to them at all. He felt silly and paranoid. He chalked it up to too many years of hanging out with Turnello who remained suspicious of anyone he didn't know.

  Jim locked his black Caddy using the remote and walked away, then walked back and checked each door by pulling the handle several times.

  The men at the picnic bench looked at one another and the large one smiled while his friend tipped his head back hissing out a laugh and smoke at the same time.

  Jim went into the building and after taking a leak, he decided on a couple of donuts, another to-go coffee and headed to his car. The men on the picnic bench were gone. Jim got into the car and was on the road.

  He just got the car up to speed when an odd vibration came from the rear. He slowed and rolled down his window for any obvious clues as to what the problem might be. A telltale flopping sound pointed to a flat tire.

  As soon as traffic allowed, he pulled onto the shoulder. He went around to the passenger side and confirmed the rear tire was flat.

  "Great, this is exactly why I left early."

  With all the time he had, this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The question became whether or not to call AAA.

  He was perfectly capable of changing the tire himself but he didn't really want to get his hands dirty if he didn't have to. Having money afforded him that privilege.

  Since he wasn't in a hurry and it was early in the day, he called for assistance and was informed it'd be a thirty minute wait. Sitting in his car with the window down, he wasn't able to relax. He should probably take his things out of the trunk so they could access the spare.

  He popped the trunk and moved stuff to the back seat when a car pulled off the road in front of him.

  "That was quick...and odd." He would have expected a truck.

  Two men got out and walked toward him. Each held a tire iron they kept low and by their side.

  "Good day, sir, might you be requiring any assistance?" one of the men shouted with a bit of a drawl.

  "You guys got here quick," Jim shouted over the trunk lid and continued to move his things to the back seat. The two men looked at one another and picked up their pace. Jim's cell phone rang with a number he didn't recognize but he put his things on the seat and answered the call anyway.

  "Hi, Mister Mulrooney, this is Matt calling for AAA. We received your service request and I should be there shortly."

  Jim looked at the two men approaching, now at his car, and recognized them as the men from the rest area. A bolt of fear shot through him.

  "That would be great, Matt. Thanks," he said and hung up. Jim shut the car door, hit the remote in his pocket to lock it and sauntered to the trunk, closing it with one hand.

  "Really thoughtful of you gentlemen to stop and offer help but I'm fine." He tried to sound calm but the adrenaline coursing through him made his heart pound.

  "People usually like to thank us with cash. Now, hand over your wallet and the keys," the skinny one said with a sly smile and then stared at Jim with cold remorseless eyes.

  "You can have my cash but you're not getting my wallet or keys. I'm far from home and I'm not letting you strand me." As the words left his mouth he regretted them. After fifteen years of training as a black belt he knew that taking on two men with weapons was a stupid idea.

  "You ain't the brightest, but you do have balls," he drawled with a distinct note of irritation. "Dennis knock some sense into him."

  The large man moved with surprising speed, raising the tire iron as he came. Instead of backing away, Jim came forward to meet him. In an adrenaline fueled imperceptible motion, Jim's left forearm smashed into the man's bicep blocking the swing and his right elbow caught the man's jaw snapping his head to one side. He fell as the tire iron flew from his hand.

  "Motherfucker," the skinny man growled. With a shocked expression, his body twitched as if he couldn't decide whether to attack or run. The sound of tires on gravel behind Jim interrupted them. The man glanced at it.

  "Dennis, get the fuck up and let's go."

  The larger man forced himself to his feet and lumbered toward the car. His friend was already behind the wheel with the engine running.

  "I'm here faster than I thought. Everything okay, sir?"

  Jim turned to see a young man in a t-shirt, jeans, and work boots getting out of a truck with a Prestige Automotive logo.

  "You must be Matt," he said extending his trembling hand, "Yeah, everything is fine. Those guys just stopped to see if I needed help."

  Turnello makes some phone calls- Late Morning, Mon Sep 2

  Turnello sat in the gas station parking lot with his radio on, eating an egg sandwich washed down with a large bottle of beer. With the morning rush hour in full swing, he watched as cars pulled in and out with amazing regularity. The hail that littered the ground began to melt. It came, wreaked its havoc, and in a short time would disappear entirely. Yet the damage on Turnello's truck would be there for years to come.

  The news came on at the top of the hour and he turned it up so he could get angry about things he had no control over and didn't affect him. The news segment ended with a story he read in the paper Friday. A massive asteroid would pass close to the Earth later that night. When he first read the story, it caught his attention but he didn't make any connections. Hearing about the asteroid again, however, gave him a funny feeling in his gut. Did the dreams warn about this?

  He raised the bottle once again and was amazed to find it already empty. He reached for the second bottle, cracked it open and brought it to his lips but then stopped with the glass pressing there.

  The sensation of the bottle. The smell of beer. Even the motion his arm made. They were all so familiar, like an old friend you could count on. But sometimes old friends could trap you in a place that no longer reflected who you were or who you wanted to be.

  In that moment he knew he needed to put a stop to it before it progressed. He pushed open the truck door and carried both the full and empty bottles to the trash. From his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone as he walked back.

  "Hello?" said the half awake man.

  "Hey, Mike, this is Turnello. You sound asleep."

  "Well, Turnello, that's because I am. Thanks for calling and confirming."

  "Listen, Mike, I think I'm in trouble and you're my sponsor so--"

  "What happened?" said Mike sounding more awake and less annoyed.

  Turnello outlined the events of the last few days, stressing the drinking more than his nightmares or his concerns about the asteroid.

  "Okay, calm down, Turnello. Everybody slips one time or another. Relapse is part of recovery. Important thing is to get to a meeting, all right? Listen, I'm up in the mountains at my fishing cabin. I thought of getting to a meeting down in Cherry Ridge tomorrow anyway. Do you know where that is?"

  "Cherry Ridge? Yeah, I know it. We used to do this boy scout thing up there and then go to Sunday mass before we came home. It's a bit of a drive for me. Over an hour, but yeah I can meet you there."

  "Good. The meeting is at 9 a.m. in the basement of the Episcopal church on Main Street."

  "Ha! That's weird. I think that's the church we used to go to."

  "Okay, so I'll see you there 9 a.m. sharp."

  "All right, Mike, I'll be there."

  Hearing about Cherry Ridge brought a flood of memories from that time in his life. The summer hikes and camping trip
s with the scouts. Dirt. Sweat. Mosquito bites. The smell of wood smoke. Pork and beans. The taste of warm water from a metal canteen. Vinny Dinewski, that crazy bastard. What a shithead. Whatever happened to him? He moved away, hadn't he? Jim, of course, and their late night conversations. Always in hushed tones and yet always incurring the wrath of the scoutmaster who wanted them asleep.

  During one of those trips Jim came up with the idea of seeking refuge in the town if anything bad happened. The idea gave Turnello a preternatural chill. Something about getting away to that place still felt right.

  He took one last look at the bottle sticking out of the trash and then got into his truck and drove toward home. He had work to do, tools he needed to pack into the truck. He also wanted to look at a map. Idle hands...idle hands belonged to the devil. Busy hands belonged to God. Best to keep busy. Best to keep moving.

  When home, he loaded the truck and grabbed a map from the glove box and went inside. He turned the shower to full hot, then in the kitchen flipped on the power to his La Pavoni EPC-8 Europiccola Espresso Machine.

  In a kitchen with plastic flatware, plates, and cups, the nine hundred dollar espresso machine seemed out of place. But one thing AA taught him was recovering drunks needed to drink a lot of coffee.

  Being particular about his java, he felt the expense was justified to maintain his sobriety. He pulled his first espresso shot of the day and then jumped in the shower and scrubbed himself pink. After drying off and dressing, he pulled out the map and found Cherry Ridge. The small dot, nestled in the two dimensional mountains of the map, seemed to glow. He looked at the folded New York Times science section from Friday sitting on the table.

  Unsure why, he picked up his cell phone and searched for the speed dial icon for his best friend Jim Mulrooney. He looked at it for a long minute, hesitated, and then tapped it. It rang.

  "Hey, T, what's going on?" said the voice on the other end amidst a lot of background noise.