I hated him, I did. But not all of me hated all of him. There was a spark of empathy, deep down. I could let it die, turn to cold ashes. Or I could blow on it and make it flare up again.
The crowd parted. The space before me cleared. The boy behind the counter faked a smile, waving me forward. And suddenly everything was crystal clear, and I stopped worrying about decisions yet to come. I stopped thinking and started acting, went where the current wanted to take me. It didn’t need to make sense because there was nothing to decide.
It had already been decided.
“Can I take your order, ma’am?”
Aww, he called me ma’am. How quaint.
“Yes, thank you … Matthew. How are you today?”
He seemed a bit taken aback, maybe expecting me to be rude. Really though I was just stalling, trying to piece things together. What exactly was I hoping to do?
“I’m fine. Can I … What can I get you?”
“I … I have a special request, Matthew. By the way, I’m E— Christian.”
I unslung the backpack from my shoulder, reached between nested drugs and guns and underwear, and pulled out the envelope. I placed it on the counter in front of us and fished a twenty from inside to pay with.
“Matthew,” I said, speaking low but fast. “I’m going to say this once, and you’ll have one chance to say yes. Got it?”
I smiled and winked and everything was fine. He nodded. I opened the envelope a bit, just enough for him to peek, not so much that the people in line behind me could see. Camera? Maybe, but that wouldn’t matter.
“This is a thousand dollars and it’s yours, if you do me a favor. I want to … prank someone. You won’t get in trouble, and you’ll be a thousand richer. No taxes, no questions. Yes or no?”
“Is this going on YouTube?”
“Let’s say yes. Are you in or out?”
He hesitated. I could tell he needed the cash. Or maybe just wanted to be a celebrity. I pulled the envelope back a bit, and he put his hand on top. I let go, and the envelope disappeared into his back pocket, so smoothly I would have sworn he’d done it before. The whole time I was talking, smiling for the cameras. Just a nice girl flirting with the boy behind the counter.
“Good. Now listen. There’s a woman in line behind me, two back. No matter what she orders, I want you to give her my order instead. She gets in another line, you make sure she gets my order. If she doesn’t, I will tell your manager you stole the money. Is that clear?”
He looked as if it was not but he nodded, and I placed the order. He punched it in and went back to his script: “Will there be anything else today?”
Was this cruelty or compassion? Maybe both? Or just instinct? I had no idea.
“A small vanilla cone. Just for me.”
Matthew nodded, rang it up and gave me the total. The twenty covered the bill and then some, so he fed me a bunch of change. I scooped the lot of it into the backpack, zipped it up and reslung it, pulling the strap tight. Just in case. Then he headed over to make my cone, looked back from the soft serve machine.
“Nuts?” he asked. I smiled.
“Yes, Matthew,” I said. “Prolly.”
There was no way this was going to work. Whatever this was.
• • •
I ate my cone while I waited, and it was nearly gone when Delia at last came out the door, bag in hand. She darted across 99, not even bothering to wait for the light, which was good because she was focused on dodging cars and didn’t see me at all as I strolled to the curb, pressed the button, and patiently waited for the little white man to tell me it was safe to cross. From afar, I watched her walk down the street, then turn into a motel parking lot. So close, this whole time.
Traffic slowed and stopped. Someone ran the light, proving the little white walking man wrong, and the traffic camera flashed, reminding me that someone had this all on tape. Everything is recorded somewhere, Edison used to say. The trick is not to avoid being seen, the trick is to avoid being remembered. But despite his warning, I couldn’t imagine anyone was watching as I darted across the street, hair blown wildly behind me. As I reached the other side, I took an elastic from my wrist and tied my hair into a tail. Reconsidered. Wrapped it in a bun, high and tight and out of the way, like it was when I was at work.
Because, I realized, I was.
Heart pounding, I turned into the motel lot like I belonged there, all the while scanning the balconies. There. Second floor, room 212, Delia beside a guy with a newspaper who was leaning against the rail, casual as anything. Instinct told me she was going to turn, was going to see me and ruin everything all to hell, so without thinking I drifted right into the lobby.
The bell rang overhead, and the manager smiled at me even though he was helping someone else at the time. It was like the circus had come to town and handed out chocolate-covered kittens. He wasn’t in a particular hurry, which was good, because I needed to take my time with this. Figure out a plan. So I stood there patiently, alternately watching him and peeking up at Delia, until it was my turn. Delia disappeared from view just as he waved me over.
“Hi, I need a room,” I said. “Do you have anything upstairs? I’d feel safer.”
He nodded and checked his records as I scanned for cameras. There was only one in the lobby, moving slowly back and forth. I caught the rhythm and timed my movements to make sure my face was turned away. Probably failing, but I felt clever.
“202,” he said, turning around to grab the key.
“Is 210 available?” I asked, fiddling with my shoe, twisting my sock around the right way. Not time yet. Draw it out. “It’s closer to the stairs.”
He shrugged and turned back to the screen, typed some more. I took the opportunity to kneel down, take my gun out of the backpack, and stow it in my jeans. When I came back up he was looking at me, but I didn’t think he noticed what I’d grabbed. I hoped he didn’t, for his sake.
“Sorry, it’s booked. Best I can do is 216. Bit further, but I can help you if—”
“That’ll be fine. Thanks.”
I handed over one of Edison’s cards, now glad I’d bothered to take them.
“Michael?” he asked. “Odd name for a girl.”
“Yeah,” I said, showing him the matching ID. “My father wanted a boy.”
• • •
When I came out of the office, the door to room 212 was unguarded. I was too far away to hear anything, but I imagined it would take some significant chaos to make them slip up like that. Which was, in the end, what I’d been hoping for. I skipped every other step on the way up and reached behind into my waistband for my EMP, still not really understanding exactly what it was I hoped to accomplish here. But before I could pull the gun out, someone emerged from the door, and I spun away and pretended to be very interested in the wall. It was very clearly the same guy who drove the van away from the diner, but somehow with my new wardrobe, newly blackened hair scattered in my face, he failed to sense I was anyone worth attention. Was too preoccupied running down the stairs, maybe to get the van ready for some unexpected occurrence.
I didn’t even really have to think about what happened next, just spun around and swept the back of his legs out, sending him tumbling. It was sloppy and stupid, and it stood no chance of doing anything remotely useful, but then it did, and he fell forwards, cracked his head against one of the concrete steps, then tumbled several more down and stopped moving. At least for a moment.
There was no time to linger; as soon as I heard skull hit stone, I had my EMP in hand. The door should have been locked, or at least closed, and it should have been one of those fancy key-card locks, triple-reinforced with the deadbolt thrown and the privacy bar secured, but it was not, it was open, so I just stepped in without thinking and went with the flow. I was in a zone.
If they had been prepared, if chaos had not slowed their reactions, if they had not been just then starting to lift Edison off of the bed, I would have been dead.
But as it stood, C
haos was on my side. And she was in a mood.
Edison was quickly abandoned, but he’d done his part and there was no way they’d be able to get weapons drawn in time. Even before he’d bounced back onto the bed, I was firing, somewhat wildly. More than a few bullets hit the wall, but enough of them hit home to count: two in the chest of one, at least one in the other’s leg. I quickly moved around the bed and put another bullet in the head of the larger target, who I recognized then as the guy from the diner who’d paid me off. I already knew the other one was Delia, and I knew now she was dangerous, but since she was busy clutching her bleeding thigh and screaming, I gave her enough time to recognize me back. As her eyes widened, I gave her a smile, then took hers away forever.
I was sure the two of them were dead, at that point, but I still wasn’t sure about Edison. I knew what he’d eaten would do bad things to him, I just wasn’t sure how fast it would happen. He could have been dead already, although I figured if that were true, they probably wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to move him. They’d clearly wanted him alive.
Did I?
I suppose I did. At least, part of me did. That little glowing ember, now brought back to life. Before I realized what I was doing, I’d pulled a yellow EpiPen out of my backpack, bit off the cap and jammed the needle into his left thigh, holding it in place for far longer than the recommended ten seconds. He didn’t react. Throwing caution to the wind, I immediately pulled out another, repeating the process in his right leg. Still nothing.
“Come on,” I said, ears ringing, head swimming. “Don’t tell me I did this for nothing.”
Why had I done it, though? I’d hoped he would die, ten minutes earlier.
Whatever, I thought. That was then, this is now.
I was reaching for the last syringe, the Benadryl, when he moaned. Eyes caught mine. Recognition. He looked at me, the pen, me. As you wish. I stuck him again, this time in the arm. He didn’t even react, didn’t even register the pain at this point, he was so far beyond. Just shut his eyes tight. When they opened, I had the backpack slung and was reaching for him.
“Can you walk?” I asked. Edison shook his head. Either he couldn’t talk, or he couldn’t hear me—his ears were more sensitive than my own and all he probably heard was his tinnitus, all that gunfire in an enclosed space—so I just tugged on his arm to get him to stand. I had just gotten him leaning on my shoulder when he suddenly spun and fell, taking us both to the floor as the guy I’d dumped down the stairs appeared in the door and fired, missing us both. Crushed beneath Edison, I watched heavy boots cross the floor, the guy evidently reluctant to shoot through the bed, perhaps for fear of hitting Edison. He stumbled sideways, too focused on holding his bleeding, broken face to avoid Delia’s body, and it was then that I got him twice, in the belly and in his leg, and he went down hard, gun forgotten. Maybe realizing he was already dead, he looked straight at me, black-and-blue stare following the barrel of my gun, down my arm, past my shoulder, into my cold, pitiless eyes. Nick’s eyes.
I gave him my last round. Least I could do.
Somehow we made it down the back stairs and out to the parking lot before the police and/or ambulance arrived out front. And they would be arriving soon—someone had pulled a fire alarm at some point during the mayhem. No doubt there was a trail of bloody prints to follow us by, but I didn’t stop to look back, lest one of us turn to salt and crumble away, just focused on finding the van, figuring they wouldn’t have had time to change vehicles yet. And they hadn’t—the van was parked right next to the street, angled for a quick getaway.
It only took a minute to limp across the lot with Edison on my shoulder, but it felt like the longest minute of my life, perhaps second only to the agonizing amount of time it took to lean him against the side of the van while I slid the side door open. It was all he could do to collapse in the back, limbs twisted in ways that were obviously wrong. I didn’t have time to dwell on his injuries, though, just shoved his legs inside along with the backpack and then slid the door shut.
Only when I was in the driver’s seat, with the van running, did I think to set my gun down, idly wondering if anyone in the motel or the adjacent buildings had noticed any of this. Any kids. I tried to feel bad but came up empty. If nothing else, maybe someone would have an actually interesting story to post on their Facebook wall, for once. Maybe I could be a meme for a day.
We were on the highway and headed north before it occurred to me that it was over. From the moment Delia had walked into the restaurant to right now, it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. Including commercials. And only now that it was over was I really starting to ask myself what it all meant.
I twisted the mirror around to peer at Edison. Beads of sweat, tears, and more ran down his face, and I could tell he was in serious pain, serious harm. But then, I’d survived an eight-hundred mile trip in a fucking trunk, so he could suck it up a little longer. At least, I thought so.
“Will you die?” I asked. “From the mayo?”
“No,” he croaked. “Worst’s past.” Then, after a moment, he asked, “Why?”
I thought about it for a moment. But the longer I thought, the harder it was going to be to answer. So I just went with what I had.
“I didn’t want you to suffer,” I said. Not like I had suffered. “I thought it would kill you.”
It was probably only half the truth, at best, but somehow, this seemed to comfort him. He settled back and shut his eyes. I bent the mirror back the other way to watch for police, but they did not materialize, so I turned onto 90, and we flew east, ran towards the rest of our lives. We rode in silence for a while, and after a while Edison started snoring, so I thought it was better to just leave him that way, dreaming of commas and fragments and run-ons. Unfinished sentences.
“It’ll be okay,” I heard myself say. “We’ll be okay. Everything will be okay from now on.”
But that, like most things that came after, was a lie.
Behind me, Edison slept.
Before me, the night sky yawned.
I never looked back.
CMH
Riptide
07/04/2017
It has taken me six months to recover. Though that word is inaccurate at best, because there has not been and will not be a total recovery from this, not without hospitalization. But it is too late for that now. I am entirely broken, here and hereafter.
Despite clipped wings we have flown far. Settling here, there, a week, a month, never longer. Just enough to find money and medicine, steal or buy or barter. But I am running out of repaid favors, had already nearly run out in Seattle, and I need to save what very little remains for when there are no options. And as for Xtian, she is now one of the few I have ever owed. I have already asked too much, and she has given freely: fed me, bathed me, cleaned me while both arms were still in painful slings. She has seen all of me. I suppose that makes us even.
This is the first I have written since things went wrong, the first my arms do not ache me to tears when I try to type. I could dull the pain, but there has been pain before and there will be more to come and this is nothing more than one pain among many. What pains me most of all is how much has happened in the past year that I was not a part of, things I have experienced only vicariously through the television: Baghdad, Orlando, Dallas, Atlanta. But strangely, I have no desire to comment on those things. Xtian’s foolish online friends can take care of speculating, for all the good it will do them. I have more immediate concerns. More personal.
It is warm in Columbus, nearly too, but I do not dislike it as much as other places, mostly because I do not know it enough yet to do so. I sit here writing on the front porch, and it feels always just on the edge of being safe, a restful sleep I can never quite fall into. All around, fireworks pop and sizzle, and I find myself flinching, looking over my shoulder. Surprises. The unknown. That is what surrounds me now. I only know that I can trust Xtian. At least for now.
She is working in another restaur
ant, stagnating herself, though now she dresses better and the food is not fast. She waits on others, like she does on me, and I hate that she does it for them, and especially for me. Perhaps what she does comes naturally for her. Serving, feeding, cleaning when necessary, doting in exchange for … what? Tips, from them. And from me? What does she get from me? What did she ever? I have asked.
“I need you,” she always says. “And now you need me.”
And though this is perhaps true, it seems to me that need is a horrid foundation, one that must necessarily crumble and fail. Need is taking, and one can only take until the other is empty and gone, and then all that is left is a Giving Stump. Both are empty, and neither can provide. Which is why this country, no matter what course it chooses, is doomed. This world, this society built upon taking, raping each other, the earth, upon cereal commercials and superficiality, musical greeting cards, and twenty-four ounce steaks.
And as if to reassure me that all is lost, my neighbor chooses this moment to wander over and invite himself up onto the porch. One day I shall kill him, but today my shoulder hurts, and again I have heartburn.
• • •
When I arrived home from work that day, sweaty and awful, our neighbor was in the swing, Edison in the lounge leaning forward as he always did, never content to relax. Maybe not able, not even in this perfect disguise, graying and soft and harmless, looking just like the man beside him.
The neighbors had all assumed from the start that Edison was my father, I older than I looked and he younger than he felt. So I came up with a story about a car accident, how my mother was killed and he was left crushed inside and out. Said never to mention it, as he was post-traumatic—which was more true than they probably thought—and they agreed. I don’t think he ever knew. He was the only one who never knew what he was to them. Weak and broken.
Work, too, was a lie, though not as big as that one. False ID, a few other fibs where needed, but overall it at least felt honest to be working, and I needed honest things in my life, especially then. When Edison could talk again he asked me what had happened, and I—wrapping his arms in bandages, watching him choke back pain—couldn’t quite gather up the courage to tell the truth about how his capture, his torture, was my fault. The lies came freely, and then less freely but more necessarily, until removing one lie and replacing it with truth would have toppled everything. I suspect I learned that lesson not from Edison, but from my parents, long before. What I remember of them is just hazy, unreliable eight-year-old fuzziness, but I’m sure that most of what they said to each other was lies. Small ones and big, purposeful lies and lies of omission. They survived not in spite of but because of their lies.
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