by Mike McCrary
Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes,
I can barely define the shape of this moment in time.
And far from flying high in clear blue skies,
I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide.
There’s no chorus or catchy riff to speak of, but the lyrics continue…
There's a kid who had a big hallucination
Making love to girls in magazines
He wonders if you're sleeping with your new found faith.
Could anybody love him,
Or is it just a crazy dream?
The words that send Remo down for the count…
And if I show you my dark side
Will you still hold me tonight?
And if I open my heart to you
And show you my weak side
What would you do?
Would you sell your story to Rolling Stone?
Would you take the children away
And leave me alone?
And smile in reassurance
As you whisper down the phone?
Would you send me packing,
Or would you take me home?
23
Remo sits stone-faced in his apartment, ever-present glass of scotch in hand while seated at his long, empty dining room table. It’s imported from…somewhere. He remembers that someone referred him to a gay guy who hand-picked everything in the place. Nothing here has any real meaning or history, other than Remo’s memory of suffering through the gay guy’s presentation of his urban chic vision.
Remo’s set up a small video camera on a tripod on the far side of the table, lens pointed directly at him. A one-man press conference of sorts.
He looks long and hard into the camera’s lens, struggling to capture his thoughts before starting this little exercise. Maybe this was a bad idea.
No, it is a good idea. Great idea. Just fucking do it already.
He clears his throat, starts to address the camera. Stops for a snort of scotch. Coughs and clears his throat again.
Shakes his head hard side-to-side and then starts. “Boy . . . Son . . . Sean. You have no idea who I am, and that’s probably a good thing.” Thinks, goes with it. “I’m your dad.”
Takes a beat to let that sink in. Sounds funny for him to hear. No one ever talks to him about Sean, and God knows he never talks about Sean to anyone else. Well, aside from the goofy waitress. He can’t imagine what it will sound like to Sean.
Remo continues, “I set up a college fund for you, started it when you were born. Your mom doesn't know about it. You should go to school, drink . . . drink a lot. It'll assist in the realignment of your thinking about your old man.”
Sip of scotch.
“You should drink and get weird with a lot of girls. Everybody says that kind of behavior doesn't help; they're fucking idiots. It helps. Helps a lot. Sorry, off topic.”
Gulp of scotch.
“My sperm donor of a daddy died in a shootout. Unfortunately, it’s looking a lot like yours might bite it the same way. His was for cheating an unfriendly poker game. Mine is, well, slightly more complicated. Same error in judgment, I suppose…fucking drifting again. Sorry, man.”
Another gulp.
Pours more.
“You're going to hate me for a long time and you won't really know why. That's okay. I should have been around to show you shit, I know I should have.”
He pushes the glass away, pops open his pill bottle scattering out a few on the table in front of him. Preparing.
“You got good DNA kid, no question. Your Mom's a MILF, and I'm not bad either. Both of us are pretty bright bulbs, so that has to put you ahead of the curve. Good looking and smart goes far in this life. Sucks for the armies of hideous dumbasses that clog the planet, but it is a fact. People will like you, and definitely will want to show up to your funeral. That's a long way off, but it's important.”
Takes a mouthful of scotch, swishes it side-to-side before a hard swallow. He picks up a pill, getting it ready between his thumb and index finger.
“You should live like you want people to miss you. There, that's a good one. I’ll leave you with that bit of wisdom.”
He bounces the pill, trying to land it in the scotch glass.
“Take it easy on your mom. Take care of her. She deserved a helluva a lot more than me . . . as do you. Just know that I think of you frequently. I've set aside some things for you. Your mom will know what to do. But Sean . . .” Remo’s eyes water, but he holds it together. “All of this—me talking here, the mindless babbling—this is really me trying to say, in an extremely piss-poor fashion, that I'm so very, very sor—”
His ringing cell phone cuts him off in mid-sentence.
Plop.
Finally got one in the glass.
Remo sees the caller ID, answers with a confused, “Hello?”
Nothing on the other end.
“Anna?”
Anna clutches her cell, standing in the doorway of her homey kitchen. Unlike Remo, she picked everything out by herself.
Sean sits coloring a Toy Story 3 picture at the table. Woody and Buzz are an odd mix of magenta and periwinkle, but the kid’s enjoying himself. Anna tries hard to keep her conversation with Remo away from Sean. “Remo, I shouldn't have said those things. You deserved every word and it was the truth, but I shouldn't have said them. Are you really dying?”
Remo, touched, replies, “Unfortunately.”
“Let's be clear, I will never forgive you.”
“Understood.”
“Stop. Let me talk. I don't like this, and I’m certain this is a massive mistake, but . . . you should meet Sean. If I don't let him meet you, I'll hate myself later.” The conversation is emotionally exhausting for her.
For first time in a long, long time, a light shines in Remo. “Thank you, Anna.”
She can hear in his voice that he means it. At least, she’d like to think he’s being honest. She snaps, “No talking. I'll meet you Saturday at seven. They’re doing a thing for kids at the park that night.”
Remo doesn’t want to make a mistake with this. “Help me out. I haven't checked a calendar in a few days.”
“Today is Friday.”
“Okay. Yes. Absolutely. I'll be there.”
“Remo…don't fuck this up.”
“No. No way. I will be—”
She hangs up.
Remo looks straight into the camera, “There.”
Wipes the moisture from his eyes.
Sniffs.
“Well, okay then.”
He gives a grin, his heart wide open.
His expression shifts as his mind clicks, data churning. A thought comes to light and he hates himself for not piecing this together sooner, pissed that this is something he should have realized long before.
Why haven’t they killed me yet?
Chicken Wing could have easily done it by now, so why hasn’t he?
He can’t!
It’s a fucking family dynamic issue, some bizarre organizational chart Mashburn chain of command.
He can’t do anything until his brothers get here.
Remo shuts off the camera and hustles out.
His beloved pill sits at the bottom of the glass, dissolving into granules swirling in good scotch.
24
Remo scours the aisles of a late night convenience store. He checks his new best friend, the Glock he’s tucked in his belt for safekeeping. Checks it just about every five seconds, like a newly married man twists his wedding ring after the ceremony—some things you have to get used to.
He hunts down the aisles, searching for something specific even though he doesn’t even consciously know what he’s looking for.
Finally, he finds the goal of his hunt in the isle of random crap packed high with gaudy tourist bait—worthless made in Taiwan NYC souvenirs—there to amaze the taste-challenged. Remo wonders, who buys this shit? He picks up a Statue of Liberty, checks the weight. That’s not it, but close. P
uts it back, lifts a marble ashtray with a cheaply painted silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge. He thinks this could be the one; it’s heavy.
Likes it.
He continues his shopping, finding a generic white electrical extension cord. Takes two.
Outside the all-night convenience store, a late model battleship of a black Lincoln sits parked across the street, Chicken Wing behind the wheel. He studies the store. The streets are almost vacant at this wee hour of the night. He inhales a bag of peanut M&M’s as he watches. He’s surrounded by a landfill of empty candy bags, Big Mac boxes, wadded up Taco Bell wrappers, crushed coffee cups and a piss jar. Chicken Wing is on stakeout, and fucking hates it. If it were up to him, and it’s not, he would have already cut that lawyer’s head off and mounted it above the fireplace of whatever house in wherever the fuck country Dutch was talking about blowing away to after they get their money. Chicken Wing allows his broken mind to imagine this unknown country. A place where he can be himself, free of all the shit that holds him back (meaning laws and his brothers), and of course a place filled with hot women who have no other desire than to please Lord Chicken Wing. What a glorious place it will be.
In lieu of that special place, Chicken Wing has been stuck in a Lincoln for days with shit grub, forced to peer through binoculars watching this fucking cocksucker Remo like some half-assed stalker. Though it has been fun to watch Remo as he comes mentally undone. Chicken Wing has seen all of it. The zombie strolls through the city. The hanging out in the coffee shop. And, of course, that little show at the funeral. That was a good one.
His burner cell goes off.
He answers. There’s no hello. No thank you for all you’ve done. No appreciation for the fact he’s been pissing in a jar. All that comes his way are questions, with a hearty helping of attitude.
He fucking hates it.
Bites his tongue, answering, “How the fuck should I know what he’s doing? Shopping for the last supper.”
In the stolen roofers van, Ferris mans the wheel while Dutch talks to his little brother. Dutch and Ferris have had their differences, sure, what brothers don’t? But they share a singular philosophy on how to deal with Chicken Wing. You must be clear, be precise and if he fucks up, be harsh.
“Do not kill him,” says Dutch.
Annoyed, Chicken Wing responds, “You fuckers keep telling me that. I. Fucking. Know.” He gets more worked up with each syllable. “All the fucking time with you people.”
“Calm down.”
“Fuck you, calm down.” Chicken Wing sees Remo exit the store. “Wait. He’s coming out.” Remo makes a beeline toward the Lincoln with his bag of goods from his shopping spree.
“He’s coming this way.”
“Why?”
“He’s crossing the street, coming toward me.” Remo pulls out the Brooklyn Bridge ashtray as he gets closer to the Lincoln.
“What’s he doing now?” asks Dutch.
“Fuck!”
Remo pulls back the ashtray, giving it a major league heave at the driver’s side window. The old school Lincoln’s windows shatters open, a buckshot of glass shards bouncing around the interior, covering the huddled Chicken Wing.
The sounds from the other end of phone earn a look of deep concern between Dutch and Ferris.
Remo works quickly. Chicken Wing scrambles and Remo smacks his Glock across Chicken Wing’s jaw, which makes a satisfying pop and crunch. Damn that felt good, thinks Remo.
Once more he whips the gun into Chicken Wing’s face. Hell, does it again. The release of violence is intoxicating.
“You lost your fucking mind?” Chicken Wing calls out with a spit of blood.
Remo gives him another smack, enjoying it a little too much. “I’m calling your bluff.” He grabs the extension cords from the bag.
“I’ll kill you. I swear to fucking God.” Chicken Wing thrashes with rage.
“You can’t or you would have done it already, right boy?”
Chicken Wing is dazed.
Bleeding.
Pissed.
Remo continues his work, wrapping Chicken Wings hands tight with the extension cords, just like he learned in Cub Scouts—knew it would come in handy some day. “Big brothers won’t let you. That has to suck for you.” He takes the second cord, tying it around Chicken Wing’s neck. Remo sees his cell on the seat, grabs it. “That you, Dutch?”
“Hello, Remo.”
Chicken Wings struggles to get loose; it’s a lost cause. Remo clutches the phone. “You want me, come get me. You’ll hear from me by sundown with the location. This all stops. You hearing me, you fuckin’ faggot?” Remo knows from years working with the criminal element that you can say a lot to these guys and it will roll off their backs, but faggot usually gets their attention.
The street is silent save for Chicken Wing fighting the cords that bind.
Dutch finally answers, “Yes, Remo.”
“I’m dumping your brother at my place, pretty sure you know where it is.” Remo jams the cell in Chicken Wings shirt pocket. Chicken Wing groans some inaudible, profanity-laden threat.
Remo gives him another pistol-whip, just for good measure…and for fun.
A nice, tooth-removing smack from the Glock’s Nylon 6.
25
Remo's cab pulls to a stop in front of a gorgeous home nestled in a suburban golf community. Yard’s manicured to absolute perfection. A dog barks in the distance, more than likely a pure-bred. A marriage of two Lexus in the drive: one SUV, one sedan. A very cute couple.
Stepping out from the cab, Remo looks over the place. His face hardens, neck muscles tighten. Something in that pleasant, inviting home has him scared shitless. He hands the cabbie a wad of sweaty cash, and the yellow cab peels off, roaring past the rows and rows of comfortable homes.
Remo takes a moment for personal inventory. I don’t want to do this, but do I have a choice?
Nope.
He makes the seemingly endless death march up the shrub-lined walkway, making note of the lovely rose bushes along the way. He dodges a basketball sporting a Knicks logo before reaching the two thousand dollar, handcrafted front door that was designed to look old and worn.
Remo takes a deep breath, says a small prayer, and rings the doorbell.
Inside, a sculpted soccer mom goes to answer. Jenny, as she’s known around the neighborhood, works hard to maintain and improve the genetic gifts she’s been given. Her looks and the appearances that come with the zip code help to hide the truth: Jenny has a past.
It is that though, her past.
Children whining in the background, she grabs the door handle. “Just a second, I've got to get the door.”
She checks the peephole, sees Remo. “Fuck me,” she says just under her breath.
On the other side of the door Remo knows what she’s probably thinking, says, “I understand you have no good reason to open this door.”
A man walks up behind her and puts a strong, reassuring hand on Jenny's shoulder. He's got this. She would like to open the door and kick Remo in the nuts, but she’s not that girl any more. Instead, she walks off to tend to the children.
The man is dressed like your average dad: king of the burbs, master of the cul-de-sac. Carries the looks of a successful engineer who jogs and maybe plays tennis. Definitely plays golf. But please, make no mistake . . . he's not that guy.
Hollis is a bad, bad man, and if you force him to demonstrate that you will not like the show.
Remo continues talking, thinking Jenny’s still guarding the gate. “I really, really need to talk to him.”
“What do you want Remo?”
Remo starts squirming, the sound of Hollis’s voice pushing pause on Remo’s heart. All of their history, good and shitty, comes rushing to him. It’s the shitty that really has Remo concerned. He utters, “Five minutes, friend.”
Hollis wraps his large hand around the knob, gripping it tight. He almost feels the steel start to dent in his grip as his knuckles go white. He’s
reviewing the shitty as well. Hollis throws open the door and barks, “Two words: fuck and no.”
Remo jumps back, says, “You know I wouldn’t come here if I had any other choice.” He gives the most sincere eyes he can muster. “Please, man.” Hollis locks into Remo, cocks his head trying to read the most impossible man on the planet to trust. “You get three minutes.”
Remo tries to step through the door but Hollis stops him cold, planting his meaty palm in the center of Remo’s chest. “Not a single damn toe in my house. Back yard.”
The door slams in Remo's face, yet he can’t help but feel hopeful. Considering Hollis didn’t rip his heart out or stomp his skull on the front porch, this is a positive sign.
Remo enters the sanctuary of the backyard through a wooden gate. Hollis waters his numerous rose bushes with an 8-Pattern, pistol-grip spray nozzle. He’s chosen a fan spray setting for his rose’s soil; it works the best. The care he takes is obvious. Hollis refuses to make eye contact as Remo cautiously steps in his direction. Remo’s smart enough to leave some space between them, a comfort cushion.
Over the years, Remo has found it’s best to open a conversation with something that makes the other person comfortable. Something that will perhaps form a bond between them, or at the very least break the icy landscape that separates them, hopefully planting the seeds of a new, stronger relationship—one that Remo can manipulate for his own wants and needs, of course. In this case, Remo goes with a comment about the man’s flowers. “It’s really coming together—”
“The pair of balls on you is beyond comprehension,” Hollis fires off.
“You’re upset, perfectly understandable.”
“Appreciate that.”
“But I did keep you out of ten-year jail stretch.”
“You also fucked my first wife, got a hand job from the second, and tried to work a three-way with the third.”
