“Depends on the woman,” he said. “Just remember: it’s always darkest before the dawn, and tomorrow is another day.”
I stared at my dad and really wanted to believe his string of clichés. Really wanted to. Clichés become clichés for a reason, right? And what did I know? I was just a kid, comparatively. He’d lived, at least. But…
“Yeah,” I said, deciding I just didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
“Ignore her. Make her want you.”
“Okay.”
“Hang in there.”
“Night dad.”
“Night, Brandon.”
My father had been a tool and die fabricator in New York who retired to Connecticut after moving the family there before I was born. He saw the writing on the wall as his profession gradually became outsourced to computer-operated machinery, when pride and craftsmanship alone were no longer enough to hold a job in a business that increasingly required accuracy down to a microscopic level. He kept talking about starting a business, getting into another line of work entirely, maybe opening a bookstore, or a video store, or—I don’t know—something.
A week before our conversation he’d taken early retirement with the hope of finding a new direction in life—whatever that might be—so he could finally do all the things he’d wanted to do when he was young… after a couple weeks of relaxing and watching TV, that is.
That night he died.
I won’t get into the details—my mom awakening me with tearful screams, images of my father’s pale, overweight body being loaded onto the gurney, the gawking neighbors, the long night in the hospital waiting room—let’s just say it hurt.
Of course, I wasn’t ready for it, and went into a tailspin for several weeks before regaining myself. And did some stupid things when I hit bottom.
“Hey, Jessica. It’s me, Brandon. Um… I was hoping I could see you. I really need someone right now, and you’re tops on my list, so… please call me.”
“Hey, Jessica. Not sure if you got my last message, but I could really use a friend right now. Please call me. It’s Brandon, by the way.”
“Jessica. It’s Brandon. Uh… in case you hadn’t heard, my dad died, and I… I don’t know. I’m not sure why I’m calling you.”
“Really? How heartless are you? Can’t you even send a text, or respond to me at all? My fucking dad died! Jesus.”
“Hi Jessica. Sorry about that last message. Been a little rough. (PAUSE) Take care. (PAUSE) Bye.”
DEPRESSED AND ANGRY, lost, and confused was my complex emotional state the night I ran into her, and pretty much why I killed her boyfriend.
* * *
HOW TO KILL A MAN
WITHOUT REALLY TRYING
* * *
I PAID FOR THE pizza I intended to share with Milton Alvarado, a scientist friend of mine at APL, and as I stepped out the front door folding my receipt with the number they would call in about fifteen, twenty minutes, I nearly bumped into Jessica walking down the sidewalk toward me. She was with some guy. They had their arms around each other, and were cuddling like old lovers—which they probably were. The affection she showed him made me doubt that the end of their evening would leave him ‘waiting’.
It shouldn’t have surprised me—or hurt me—but it did.
I saw them before they saw me, and was so stunned—especially because she was so much happier with this asshole than she’d ever seemed with me—that I just stood in the shadows of the restaurant awning and stared at them, kind of idiotically.
He was one of those ridiculously handsome guys who probably slept in Tupperware so he awoke perfect and handsome every morning, ripped, tanned, coiffed and ready for the day at precisely seven.
They were laughing, he a little less joyfully than she. I noted that the ‘unbalance’ in their relationship was all on her side, he a bit cool and distant, she, clutchy and adoring, never taking her eyes off him which is why she didn’t notice me. At one point he made a joke, she laughed harder than any joke could have warranted, and gripped his ass in a quick gesture of appreciation and promise.
He clearly didn’t want her as much as she wanted him, which made me the door prize if he ever came to his senses and moved on. Something he most likely would do, if she ever told him he had to wait for sex.
He smiled at her little grope, and seemed pleased with where the evening was going right up until he saw me staring at them.
For some reason our eyes locked. Mine unblinking, and unfocused. His curious, and slowly angering.
“You got a problem?” he asked.
“Oh, my God!” Jessica said, finally seeing me.
“What?” Ridiculously Handsome asked. “Who is he?”
“That’s the guy from work,” she said under her breath, quietly enough that I could still hear. “I told you about him, remember?”
“Oh,” he said, relocking eyes with mine. “Yeah.”
And what—exactly—had she told him?
Still not blinking I shifted my gaze over to Jessica, whose cheeks had flushed bright red. She said nothing, and continued leaning against her ‘beau’.
“Did sex complicate things with him?” I asked her.
She remained silent, only swallowing, nervously.
I turned my attention back to Ridiculously Handsome.
“She make you wait before she fucked you?” I asked in that intentionally vague way that makes it sound like I had fucked her.
I really don’t know why I said it. Really don’t know why I was pushing it. I’d long suspected Jessica was sleeping with someone else—someone she was into way more than me. Maybe several someones. And I had… well… this wasn’t… I was angry—I admit—about her blowing me off without so much as an explanation, angry about my dad, angry about a lot of things.
But I wasn’t angry enough to start what happened next.
At the moment I was just feeling bad, hurt, stupid and used, and all I really wanted was to not feel that way, anymore. And getting in the face of the dick who’d beat me out in competition for Jessica was perfect for making me forget the pain. Petty, I admit, but perfect. So I asked my jerky little question, and stood there not letting either of them off the hook.
“You make him wait, or did you fuck him right away?” I asked Jessica, making her gasp, and look afraid for her life.
It was all good fun right up until Ridiculously Handsome took exception to me saying dirty words to the girl-he-sort-of-liked-because-she-would-have-sex-with-him, and began to puff up, insisting that I ‘take it back.’ Take what back, asshole? I asked her a question. I didn’t call her names.
So he kept insisting, having crossed the line over into protective, dominant male, while I simultaneously crossed a mental line of my own and decided—internally; I’m taking nothing back, fuckwad, and in fact if you keep pushing it, I’m going to make you eat shit.
See, I’d studied some karate, and worked out a little. Enough to defend myself, anyway. In most circumstances a little karate is plenty because the percentage of guys who actually know how to fight is really low. So when Ridiculously Handsome stepped up to me and got in my face, trying to intimidate me, I was all fine and good—completely comfortable with my manhood. But when he shoved a finger in my face and started pushing on the tip of my nose, while, for emphasis, slapping my cheek to punctuate each word in his sentence—well—things got a little out of hand.
“You…” slap, “…don’t…” slap, “…talk…” slap, “…that…” slap, “…way…” slap, “… to her!” SLAP!
The last slap was strong enough to knock me back against some guy’s car, and that’s when people finally seemed to notice something was actually happening close enough to them to potentially be a problem. I heard a gasp, some shuffling feet, scooting chairs, and felt the masculine shame of being manhandled by an asshole.
I started to get up off the stranger’s car, but Ridiculously Handsome shoved me back onto it, with a kind of grunted warning that I should stay put,
keeping his palm on my chest for emphasis as he turned to Jessica and snarled.
“Did you fuck this guy?” he demanded.
“NO, I…”
And that’s when he punched me. If you’ve ever been punched, bare knuckle, you know it hurts like hell. Pain sears into your face, blood thumps the wound, and your brain takes a minute to stop jello-ing around inside your skull so you can think straight.
“Are you, sure?” Ridiculously Handsome growled.
“Josh, NO! I swear! I barely know him!”
“Don’t lie to me, cunt!” He screamed, as he punched me again. Clearly taking his anger at her out on me.
Well, I guess I had implied something, so I’ll take some of the blame, but not all of it. What happened next wasn’t just my fault, right?
See… in karate the first things they teach you go entirely toward handling situations like this. Typical bully, typical bar fight nonsense. So even though I never got beyond a green belt, I could handle this. And suddenly I was really motivated to handle it.
Very calmly, and very quickly, I reached up and grabbed Ridiculously Handsome’s non-punching hand off my chest with my non-dominant fingers and twisted his arm around until he was hurting, really hurting, and off-balance. Then—while he was unsteady and just struggling not to look like a puss, though pretty much helpless and already practically crying—I punched him in his fucking face.
Unlike him, I knew where to aim. Bridge of the nose, first two knuckles between the eyes.
Blood gushed like a fountain from both of his nostrils, and I was amazed at how fast his face started swelling up. It shocked us both. Him maybe more than me.
I wasn’t shocked enough to stop, though. Because now I was pissed.
Still twisting his hand I hammered him again in the side of his head, and watched the skin on his face flop around like it was slo-mo water I’d thrown a brick into. Then I let go, drew back the hand I’d held him with, clenched it into a fist and slammed that into the opposite side of his face—you know—just to balance out the bruising.
Unexpectedly for both of us, the impact toppled him over and back, right through the pizza store’s plate glass window.
Jessica was screaming, glass was exploding all around us, and a piece of crystal razor guillotined down and ripped through the guy’s arm and chest. I guess it must have severed an artery. I’ve never seen so much blood rush so quickly out of a human being. He went completely pale, looked like death, and held out his arm to stare at the wound as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He began to moan, incoherently, his eyes widening with fear and horror. Still in a rage, feeling no sympathy at all at that point, I stepped up to pop him once again in his pleading, begging, wimpy fucking face. The fight was way beyond over, but I wanted to punch him again anyway.
But my mind cleared before I popped him, and I began to feel empathy, so I paused, and suddenly someone was pushing me off him, while someone else was yelling to call nine-one-one, a third guy was screaming to apply pressure to the wound, and Jessica was just shrieking nonsense, kneeling beside the lover boy she hadn’t made wait, while I stood there, the anger draining out of me the way his blood was draining out of him.
Jessica turned suddenly to me with tears in her eyes she would never have shed for me, and screamed.
“What is WRONG with you?”
I honestly didn’t know. I just knew she hadn’t told me the truth, it had made me angry, that guy had started it, and now everything was a mess. I walked away thinking how us not having sex hadn’t made this any less of a mess.
* * *
GUNS DRAWN
* * *
I GUESS I SHOULD have helped. I guess I should have stayed around. But my mind was a cyclone. For a moment I wondered if it was over with Jessica, and then laughed at myself.
No, Brandon, no! Any minute now she’s going to realize that what she wants more than anything is a violent sociopath who slices men up and then leaves them bleeding on the street! Then she’ll come running!
I shook my head in a vain attempt to clear it.
“Fuck,” I said quietly to myself. “What have I done? My life is over.”
My phone buzzed. My mom. I stared at the glowing screen and decided to ignore it.
I had driven up to APL because I really didn’t know what else to do, and sat there in the parking lot for a long, long while. What if the guy died? Would there be a trial? Would I go to prison? Even if I was lucky enough not to, would I lose my job? APL was a hi-tech facility that required security clearances, and background checks. Even just for emptying wastebaskets and vacuuming rugs.
Eventually I got out of my car and headed for Milton’s office thinking the guy was going to be starving, which is when it hit me that I’d left without the pizza.
Crap. No going back for it, now.
No going back for anything, now.
I WAS WALKING toward the elevator, heading down the sidewalk past Lena’s…I mean, Dr. Mizzelier’s office. The path was almost completely blocked by a pile of broken palette wood; apparently fragments left over from some crate that had been destroyed removing whatever had been inside. I thought for a moment about how it was probably going to be my mess to clean up, and then realized I’d probably be in jail, and wouldn’t have to clean up anything at APL ever again.
I was just stepping around the debris when Dr. Mizzelier opened the door to her office and startled us both.
Her perfumed scent drifted lazily in the air, and when she turned to me I noticed she wore mascara, her lips redder than usual. She is, in not just my opinion, a very beautiful woman, but usually more plainly made-up because she didn’t need to impress anybody when she spent most of her time alone in those rooms of hers. So it stood out that tonight she looked ready for a special evening.
“Brandon!” she said, startled, and then checked her watch. “You’re early.”
“Oh, uh…” I said, trying to sound casual. “I have to see Milton.”
“You and Milton,” she said, smiling. “I hope there’s nothing going on between you two?”
“No, I just…” I flinched a little. “He’s been a good friend, lately, is all.”
“Do you need a good friend?” she asked, smiling.
I lowered my head and avoided the question. I hadn’t told her my dad had died, and she had been the one to set me up with Jessica, so I never felt comfortable discussing my relationship—or lack thereof—with her. And now seemed like a bad time to start.
“Well, what’s Milton going to do when you aren’t around any longer… because you’re spending all your time up at UMPA?”
I stared at her blankly for quite a while, until slowly—very slowly—it sunk in. On my behalf she’d offered to talk to the chancellor at the university where she taught, and he’d apparently agreed to help get me into the school. It was the longest of long shots for a poor kid like me; with the crappy grades I’d had in school and not even enough money for the application fee. But Dr. Mizellier had come through. My mind began to wander with thoughts of attending classes while I was in prison.
“They’re willing to grant you admittance,” she said confirming my train of thought. “More importantly, I think you’ve got a shot at that scholarship.”
Her smile fell, as she saw no change in my expression. I continued to stare at her blankly; overwhelmed with a deep sadness about how completely I’d just fucked up my life. She was offering me the sky, but one moment of anger, a second of lost control, and it was all gone. Completely blown. College, a scholarship, a future, a life beyond being a loser janitor. Maybe Jessica. Maybe… maybe everything I’d ever wanted… flushed like the shit my life had so suddenly become.
“Aren’t you excited?” she asked, obviously reading my mood.
“You, uh…” I said, struggling to find coherent words, “you have no idea.”
I couldn’t focus. I only wanted to not think about the ruin I’d just made of my life.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I don’t… I just…”
My phone buzzed against my thigh like an angry swarm of bees, and wanting to avoid a conversation with Dr. Mizellier anyway, I finally gave in, took it out and answered the damn thing.
“Hi, mom,” I said.
She was crying. Sobbing. She sounded like she was in fear of her life.
“Mom…?”
“Brandon, the police were just here. They got your address from the credit card company off the number you left at some pizza place. What’s going on? They said you killed someone!”
“I… what?” My voice fell almost to a whisper. I was shocked to my core. “He died?”
“You mean you DID kill someone?”
“No, Mom, I was just…” I held a finger up to Dr. Mizellier, she nodded understanding and I walked away.
“Mom,” I continued, turning away, whispering as Dr. Mizellier stood watching me from her door. “I was just defending myself…”
“Brandon, what happened? I know you’re a good kid, honey… the best! But since your dad died…”
“This has nothing to do with that, mom. The guy was being a jerk to this girl, and…”
“So you killed him?”
“Oh, Jesus.”
I heard sirens coming down the long road up from town and fear ripped through me.
“Mom? Did you tell the police where I worked?”
“They wanted to know where you were! I figured it had to be a mistake!”
The sirens stopped, but I could see red and blue flashers out near the main guard shack.
“Mom, I have to go…”
“Brandon, what happened?”
“Nothing! It’ll be all right! I promise! But I have to go!”
“Bran—”
God, I wanted to cry. One stupid mistake, one idiotic moment of passion, and my life was now completely fucked.
My head swam, its thoughts a turbulent morass of uselessness. I thought of giving myself up. I thought of running. I thought of… everything stupid and nothing smart.
The Hollow World: (Pangea, Book 1) Page 2
