Unfininshed Business
by Tim Baker
1
The last thought to go through Bill Kilroy’s mind before he died was of the man who had saved his life.
To say that there was silence in the hospital room would be a half-truth. There was no noise that would disturb a person trying to read a book but there were a wealth of sounds that Kilroy was tired of hearing. He was tired of hearing the various beeps and hums and drips made by the assortment of machines connected to his frail body. Despite the advanced technologies making them barely audible, he heard them as if they were freight trains, much the same as the snowflakes that night in 1944.
To him the sounds of the machines did nothing but remind him that his life was in the hands of others.
Again.
The 83-year-old Kilroy looked at the faces surrounding his bed, tears in his eyes his only method of communication. Gathered in the small room were Sylvia, his wife of 59 years, their four children and nine grandchildren.
Sylvia held Bill’s left hand and stroked it lovingly while his oldest son, Carl held the right. Carl was approaching sixty now and served as a constant reminder to Kilroy of the last time his life was in somebody else’s hands.
Over the years Kilroy had gotten used to explaining the reason his oldest son’s name was Carl instead of William Jr., which was the name of son number two. Regardless of how many times he answered the question, the story never got any easier to tell.
There were six of them; Kilroy, Corporal Carl Benson and four PFCs, Al Kidd, Howard Archibald, Bruce Jordan and Wayne Palmer. They served with the 101st Airborne during the Second World War. They called themselves Kilroy’s Killers and they took advantage of every opportunity to leave the legendary graffiti “Kilroy Was Here” as a calling card, with one slight modification, they changed it to say “Kilroy’s Killers Were Here”. One time Archibald even used his bayonet to carve it into the chest of a dead German soldier. With the exception of Benson, whose wife was expecting their first child, all of the men were single. In the year they had been together they developed a camaraderie that rivaled that of the closest brothers. Having been together the longest, Kilroy and Benson were especially close.
On Christmas Eve, 1944 the Killers were on patrol in a forest near the Belgian border. Creeping silently through the thick trees, they spaced themselves far enough apart to minimize the chances of a slaughter should they be fired upon, yet close enough together to maintain visual contact with each other.
They moved slowly and deliberately, each man as taut as a bowstring ready to react to a hostile situation. The forest was deadly still. So much so that even the sound of snowflakes landing gingerly in the thick canopy of pine needles above was like a cacophony to their heightened sense of alert.
After two hours they stopped to check the map coordinates. Reaching into the cargo pocket of his pants, Kilroy produced the map and his compass. While the others formed a perimeter, Kilroy and Benson consulted the map and discussed their strategy in barely audible whispers. Nobody else made a sound.
As Kilroy pointed to a spot on the map and looked to Benson for confirmation, the stillness was broken by a small metallic click. Instinctively, Kilroy stuffed the map into his pocket while he and Benson spun around and brought their tommy guns to the ready.
All six men scanned the forest in front of them and all six men saw the same thing; trees covered with a blanket of fresh snow. The flakes that fell steadily restricted vision to less than one hundred yards. Kilroy squinted into the whiteness but saw nothing.
Using hand signals, he motioned for Kidd and Palmer to check the left flank and Archibald and Jordan to check the right flank. The men followed orders and began creeping off in search of the source of the sound.
For five agonizing minutes nothing happened. Despite the snow and the freezing temperatures, Kilroy felt sweat dampening his armpits.
Without warning the still air was shattered by the sound of machine gun fire. Kilroy heard Al Kidd scream that he was hit and Wayne Palmer returning fire from the left. Kilroy and Benson ran toward the skirmish. They came upon Kidd lying next to a tree wrapping a field dressing around his right leg. With a silent nod to let them know he was ok, Kidd resumed wrapping his leg while Kilroy and Benson continued past.
When they saw Palmer lying in the snow firing to the east, they took positions behind the biggest trees they could find and obtained a fix on the source of the gunfire.
“Kraut patrol sarge,” Palmer yelled. “They were as surprised as we were.”
For several minutes there was nothing but pure chaos until finally the German guns fell silent. Kilroy jammed a fresh clip into his tommy and looked over the forward site but all he saw was smoke drifting lazily off the tip. No movement and no sound, except for the falling snow. It was as if nothing had happened. After a few minutes he signaled to Benson and Palmer to advance on the Germans.
The two men crept silently towards the enemy. From their right, Archibald and Jordan came out of the trees and together, the four men closed in on the German patrol. Kilroy brought up the rear keeping a watchful eye out for any additional Germans who might sneak up on them from behind.
There were seven bodies lying in the snow, which was now turning dark red with the flowing blood.
The site of the dead men, or boys actually, made Kilroy pause and withdraw into his thoughts. Seven boys who were alive five minutes earlier now lay dead in the snow. Seven boys who were probably sharing thoughts about what they would do after the war, or perhaps what they would do that night when they returned to their unit. If it had been just a little different there may have been six American corpses instead of seven German ones. He thought about Sylvia and how close he had come to never seeing her again.
His reverie was broken by Benson screaming.
“Sarge, watch out!”
Kilroy looked up in time to see one of the German soldiers raising his rifle to fire at him. There was no time to react; in a milli-second his mind resigned itself to the fact that his life was over. Again he thought of Sylvia and in his mind he apologized to her for getting killed before they had a chance to marry. He wondered if he would be buried at home in Connecticut or if they would bury him here in Germany. He didn’t want to be buried in Germany, far from all those he loved.
The sudden blur in front of him shocked him out of his thoughts and he watched in silence as Carl Benson dove at the German just as the barrel of the enemy machine gun belched flames. There were several shots before the gun came up empty. Benson landed in the snow next to the German with a thud. Kilroy brought his tommy up and fired at the German until his clip was empty.
When the gun refused to fire anymore, Kilroy threw it to the ground and rushed to the side of his friend. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a commotion as the rest of the squad emptied their guns into the other German bodies.
He turned Carl over and looked into his eyes. They stared upward as if watching the falling snowflakes but Kilroy knew they saw nothing. There were five bullet holes in a line from Benson’s right ear across his throat and down to his chest.
He was dead.
Kneeling in the snow, he cradled his friend’s head and tried to will life back into him. For the second time in five minutes he was shown how easily the chasm between life and death could be crossed. He looked into the eyes of the man who had made the ultimate sacrifice and wondered what his last thought was.
Then he cried.
When his first son was born three years later, there was no deliberation about what to name him. Carl Benson Kilroy was a living memorial to the best friend Bill had ever known.
Lying in the hospital bed looking into his son’s eyes, Bill Kilroy thought about the man who had saved his life and he cried for the man who had died before meeting his only child. As tears rolled down his cheeks, Bill Kilroy died.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Last Resort
February 25, 1986
Providence, RI
The frigid wind could cut through steel.
Inside the small trailer that served as his office, Gerry Houle used a pair of pliers to turn the broken knob on the electric space heater in an attempt to coax more heat from it. The spring shaped elements hummed and glowed bright red but did precious little to warm the space. Cold air continued to creep in through the drafty window and around the poorly sealed door.
After rubbing his hands briskly in front of the heater he turned to face the desk.
The red light on his answering machine winked at him. When he pressed the play messages button the machine went through a series of clicks and whirs while the tape rewound. When it reached the beginning it slowly reversed direction and began playing the message. Gerry recognized the voice of Fred Love immediately.
“Hidey-ho Gerry, this is your favorite Architect, Fred Love. I hope you’re staying warm out there. Give me a call when you can, we’ve got to discuss that issue again.”
There was a barely audible click followed by several seconds of silence until the machine began to whir and click again as it reset the tape for more messages.
Pushing aside a pile of papers and a Styrofoam coffee cup, he picked up the phone and pressed the first speed-dial button.
While he listened to the ringing at the other end he inspected the inside of the coffee cup. Midway through the second ring the call was answered by a youthful, polite, female voice. The pleasant tone of her voice told Gerry she was not struggling to stay warm.
“Good morning, Thomlinson, Jones and Bergstrom, how may I help you?”
Gerry sat up straight and tossed the empty cup toward the trash can where it bounced off the rim and landed on the floor.
“Hi, this is Gerry Houle; can I speak to Fred Love, please?”
“Good morning, Gerry, one moment, please,” the polite voice replied, followed by a click and a horrible muzak rendition of The Beatles’ “A Hard Days Night”.
Gerry tried to ignore the blasphemous muzak by watching the activity outside his window.
The sound of a truck horn signaled coffee-break time as a white catering truck rolled through the gate onto the construction site. The words “Martin’s Catering” were painted on the stainless steel sides of the rear compartment of the truck. A steady stream of water dripped from the undercarriage and steam rose out of the top.
Gerry watched as a dozen men descended on the truck like cowhands responding to the dinner bell. The multiple layers of clothing they wore in defense against the savage wind made it impossible to recognize any of them with the exception of Rich Garcia, the assistant project manager, who was discussing something with the steel fabricator. Garcia had more fashion sense than common sense so his only protection from the biting cold was a maroon Members Only jacket.
After opening the flip-up doors on the back of the catering truck Martin stood by the rear corner with one hand in the pocket of his tattered gray sweatshirt and the other, covered with a fingerless black glove, poised on his change dispenser. The stub of an unlit cigar was clenched between his teeth.
Just as “A Hard Days Night” came to an end, Gerry heard a click and the muzak was replaced by the cheerful voice of Fred Love.
“Fred Love speaking.”
Without seeing the man, Gerry knew there was a broad smile on his face and a bow tie around his neck.
“Hi, Fred, Gerry Houle here.”
“Howdy-do, Gerry, thanks for getting back to me this quickly.”
“No problem, Fred, what can I do for you?” Gerry asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Gerry, I’m not at my desk, let me put you on hold for one minute.”
Gerry heard another click followed by the muzak version of “Mack the Knife”.
The temperature inside the trailer was inching its way toward 60 degrees, which was balmy compared to the 35 degree outside temperature. The trailer also protected Gerry from the 25 mile-per-hour winds, which produced a wind-chill temp of 23.
Twenty-five years in the New England construction industry meant that Gerry had worked in cold weather more than he cared to think about. Having worked his way up to superintendent at least afforded him the quasi-luxury of a heated (a term to be used loosely) trailer to work in.
Gerry continued to watch through his window as the workers outside, mostly masons, huddled behind a twenty-foot high concrete block wall seeking protection against the wind as they drank coffee and ate donuts or muffins. Garcia and the steel fabricator stood in the shelter of the wall discussing something over a set of folded blueprints.
Memories of days spent walking the iron ten stories up in similar weather made Gerry shiver involuntarily. Thank Christ he didn’t have to do that anymore.
“Poor bastards,” Gerry muttered to himself as a huge wind gust rocked the trailer.
A click in his ear piece and Fred was back on the line.
“Okee-dokee, Gerry, sorry about that.”
“No problem, Fred.”
“Gerry, I’ll cut right to the chase-er-ino,” Fred said. “Our engineer is getting very upset about those unbraced block walls. We’ve made several calls to your office, written two letters to your boss; the second one was hand delivered yesterday, and nothing’s being done.”
Gerry cringed when Fred referred to Glenn Worden as “his boss”, even though it was technically true, Gerry had never worked for a person that he despised as much. In Gerry’s opinion, Worden would sell his mother into slavery if there was enough profit in it.
“I understand Fred, but there isn’t much I can do about it.”
“I know that, Gerry, I just wanted to warn you that our next step is to issue a stop work order on him.”
The men outside continued their efforts to avoid the cold wind and enjoy a hot cup of coffee before it became a cold cup of coffee.
Gerry watched as the wind caused the top of the wall to sway several inches. Fred and the Engineer were rightfully concerned. With no roof framing to secure the top of the wall wind like this could easily topple it.
Fred’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Are you there, Gerry?”
What Gerry witnessed next was so surreal that it failed to register with him right away. It didn’t happen in slow motion the way it does in the movies, it happened in a matter of about three seconds.
As the wind continued its relentless assault on the wall, the men huddled behind it. Twenty feet above them, the force of the gusts moved the wall. Gerry expected it to move six inches or so and then return to its former position but it didn’t.
It continued to move, a foot, two feet, five feet.
On the ground, the construction workers continued eating and drinking, unaware of what was happening above them.
Gerry watched in mute horror as four tons of concrete block wall hurdled toward the ground and the unsuspecting men.
“Gerry? Did I lose you?” Fred asked.
“Holy shit,” Gerry muttered as he dropped the phone.
As the phone landed on the floor, the 20-foot high, 60-foot long concrete block wall landed on the ground with a massive thud, like the muffled bass drum of the gods. Gerry felt the concussion in his feet. Pieces of concrete block flew off in every direction. Despite the frozen ground, dust rose in a giant plume.
Gerry was transfixed in his spot.
A second earlier there had been men sitting there, eating donuts, talking about the Super Bowl, commiserating about the cold or discussing what they would do when they inevitably won the lottery. Now there was a pile of broken and silent concrete blocks with pieces of twisted steel reinforcing pointing uselessly in all directions.
There was no movement.
Other than the tinny sound of Fred’s voice coming through the phone, the only sound Gerry heard was the wind roaring outside the trailer.
Providence, RI
The frigid wind could cut through steel.
Inside the small trailer that served as his office, Gerry Houle used a pair of pliers to turn the broken knob on the electric space heater in an attempt to coax more heat from it. The spring shaped elements hummed and glowed bright red but did precious little to warm the space. Cold air continued to creep in through the drafty window and around the poorly sealed door.
After rubbing his hands briskly in front of the heater he turned to face the desk.
The red light on his answering machine winked at him. When he pressed the play messages button the machine went through a series of clicks and whirs while the tape rewound. When it reached the beginning it slowly reversed direction and began playing the message. Gerry recognized the voice of Fred Love immediately.
“Hidey-ho Gerry, this is your favorite Architect, Fred Love. I hope you’re staying warm out there. Give me a call when you can, we’ve got to discuss that issue again.”
There was a barely audible click followed by several seconds of silence until the machine began to whir and click again as it reset the tape for more messages.
Pushing aside a pile of papers and a Styrofoam coffee cup, he picked up the phone and pressed the first speed-dial button.
While he listened to the ringing at the other end he inspected the inside of the coffee cup. Midway through the second ring the call was answered by a youthful, polite, female voice. The pleasant tone of her voice told Gerry she was not struggling to stay warm.
“Good morning, Thomlinson, Jones and Bergstrom, how may I help you?”
Gerry sat up straight and tossed the empty cup toward the trash can where it bounced off the rim and landed on the floor.
“Hi, this is Gerry Houle; can I speak to Fred Love, please?”
“Good morning, Gerry, one moment, please,” the polite voice replied, followed by a click and a horrible muzak rendition of The Beatles’ “A Hard Days Night”.
Gerry tried to ignore the blasphemous muzak by watching the activity outside his window.
The sound of a truck horn signaled coffee-break time as a white catering truck rolled through the gate onto the construction site. The words “Martin’s Catering” were painted on the stainless steel sides of the rear compartment of the truck. A steady stream of water dripped from the undercarriage and steam rose out of the top.
Gerry watched as a dozen men descended on the truck like cowhands responding to the dinner bell. The multiple layers of clothing they wore in defense against the savage wind made it impossible to recognize any of them with the exception of Rich Garcia, the assistant project manager, who was discussing something with the steel fabricator. Garcia had more fashion sense than common sense so his only protection from the biting cold was a maroon Members Only jacket.
After opening the flip-up doors on the back of the catering truck Martin stood by the rear corner with one hand in the pocket of his tattered gray sweatshirt and the other, covered with a fingerless black glove, poised on his change dispenser. The stub of an unlit cigar was clenched between his teeth.
Just as “A Hard Days Night” came to an end, Gerry heard a click and the muzak was replaced by the cheerful voice of Fred Love.
“Fred Love speaking.”
Without seeing the man, Gerry knew there was a broad smile on his face and a bow tie around his neck.
“Hi, Fred, Gerry Houle here.”
“Howdy-do, Gerry, thanks for getting back to me this quickly.”
“No problem, Fred, what can I do for you?” Gerry asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Gerry, I’m not at my desk, let me put you on hold for one minute.”
Gerry heard another click followed by the muzak version of “Mack the Knife”.
The temperature inside the trailer was inching its way toward 60 degrees, which was balmy compared to the 35 degree outside temperature. The trailer also protected Gerry from the 25 mile-per-hour winds, which produced a wind-chill temp of 23.
Twenty-five years in the New England construction industry meant that Gerry had worked in cold weather more than he cared to think about. Having worked his way up to superintendent at least afforded him the quasi-luxury of a heated (a term to be used loosely) trailer to work in.
Gerry continued to watch through his window as the workers outside, mostly masons, huddled behind a twenty-foot high concrete block wall seeking protection against the wind as they drank coffee and ate donuts or muffins. Garcia and the steel fabricator stood in the shelter of the wall discussing something over a set of folded blueprints.
Memories of days spent walking the iron ten stories up in similar weather made Gerry shiver involuntarily. Thank Christ he didn’t have to do that anymore.
“Poor bastards,” Gerry muttered to himself as a huge wind gust rocked the trailer.
A click in his ear piece and Fred was back on the line.
“Okee-dokee, Gerry, sorry about that.”
“No problem, Fred.”
“Gerry, I’ll cut right to the chase-er-ino,” Fred said. “Our engineer is getting very upset about those unbraced block walls. We’ve made several calls to your office, written two letters to your boss; the second one was hand delivered yesterday, and nothing’s being done.”
Gerry cringed when Fred referred to Glenn Worden as “his boss”, even though it was technically true, Gerry had never worked for a person that he despised as much. In Gerry’s opinion, Worden would sell his mother into slavery if there was enough profit in it.
“I understand Fred, but there isn’t much I can do about it.”
“I know that, Gerry, I just wanted to warn you that our next step is to issue a stop work order on him.”
The men outside continued their efforts to avoid the cold wind and enjoy a hot cup of coffee before it became a cold cup of coffee.
Gerry watched as the wind caused the top of the wall to sway several inches. Fred and the Engineer were rightfully concerned. With no roof framing to secure the top of the wall wind like this could easily topple it.
Fred’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Are you there, Gerry?”
What Gerry witnessed next was so surreal that it failed to register with him right away. It didn’t happen in slow motion the way it does in the movies, it happened in a matter of about three seconds.
As the wind continued its relentless assault on the wall, the men huddled behind it. Twenty feet above them, the force of the gusts moved the wall. Gerry expected it to move six inches or so and then return to its former position but it didn’t.
It continued to move, a foot, two feet, five feet.
On the ground, the construction workers continued eating and drinking, unaware of what was happening above them.
Gerry watched in mute horror as four tons of concrete block wall hurdled toward the ground and the unsuspecting men.
“Gerry? Did I lose you?” Fred asked.
“Holy shit,” Gerry muttered as he dropped the phone.
As the phone landed on the floor, the 20-foot high, 60-foot long concrete block wall landed on the ground with a massive thud, like the muffled bass drum of the gods. Gerry felt the concussion in his feet. Pieces of concrete block flew off in every direction. Despite the frozen ground, dust rose in a giant plume.
Gerry was transfixed in his spot.
A second earlier there had been men sitting there, eating donuts, talking about the Super Bowl, commiserating about the cold or discussing what they would do when they inevitably won the lottery. Now there was a pile of broken and silent concrete blocks with pieces of twisted steel reinforcing pointing uselessly in all directions.
There was no movement.
Other than the tinny sound of Fred’s voice coming through the phone, the only sound Gerry heard was the wind roaring outside the trailer.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Pump It Up
By Tim Baker
1
The silence inside the house was broken by the doorbell.
She studied a group of bugs hovering around the porch light, watching them absently as they bounced off the glass globe only to fly right back toward it. Sweat formed at the base of her spine, either from nerves or the humid Florida night.
Blurred movement through the opaque glass of the door caught her eye. The door swung open and Lorraine found herself face to face with an enigma.
“You must be Lorraine,” the person said. “I’m Passion, come on in.”
Passion smiled widely, showing teeth that were whiter than a snow-covered polar bear, and stepped aside for Lorraine to enter.
The first thing Lorraine noticed about the house was the smell. There were two distinct odors struggling for dominance. One was vanilla, probably a plug-in air freshener. Just beneath the vanilla was the same odor that had lingered in Lorraine’s bathroom for a few days after the workers had finished repairing a leaky shower door. The combination was slightly nauseating.
Passion led Lorraine to the living room and motioned for her to sit on the sofa. The sound of a television came from another room, mixed with the cackling laughter of whoever watched it.
“Now, you just relax,” Passion said in a husky voice. “Ernie’ll be right out.”
Lorraine hoped Passion hadn’t noticed her stare. She prayed that the confusion she felt wasn’t visible on her face. Passion’s appearance was a testament to yin and yang. Thick, bleached blonde hair, penciled-on eyebrows, full—almost too full—pouty lips and D-sized breasts were the yin…while the hard, muscular biceps, strong, meaty hands and the bulge in the crotch area were the yang. Passion was a walking contradiction.
The riddle of Passion’s gender quickly faded as Lorraine suddenly noticed she was cold. A continuous stream of tremors raced throughout her body and she wished Suzanne had come with her as planned; especially since this whole thing was Suzanne’s idea to begin with.
It started as simple office chit-chat. Lorraine mentioned to Suzanne that she needed advice on what to get her husband for his fortieth birthday. Suzanne blurted her suggestion almost as if she had been waiting to be asked.
“Ray is always saying you have no ass, so get one and give him something to hold on to,” Suzanne had said.
Lorraine had laughed about it at first, but since she was having trouble coming up with anything else, she finally gave in and asked Suzanne for more information.
And now, here she was.
A weak smile crossed her face when she remembered the day Suzanne had unbuttoned her shirt and pulled up her bra in the ladies’ room at work, demanding that Lorraine feel her breasts.
“Trust me,” Suzanne said, “In one pumping party, Ernie took me from the Great Plains to the Rocky Mountains. Go ahead, give ‘em a squeeze. Matt loves ‘em.”
It was certainly true, Ernie had greatly enhanced Suzanne’s shape last month and her fiancé was ecstatic about it.
“Was it painful?” Lorraine had asked.
“Once you get past the first ten needles, it’s a piece of cake.”
“What does that kind of thing cost?”
“He charged me four hundred, but he might charge you eight. Still cheaper than a plastic surgeon.”
Suzanne would have been here if she hadn’t gotten sick. Lorraine wondered how her friend was doing—she had to be taken to the emergency room last night and Lorraine thought about cancelling the appointment, but she couldn’t find the paper with Ernie’s phone number.
The anticipation was ramping up and even though she was cold, she felt sweat rolling under her armpits. Eight hundred dollars and an unknown number of needles—Ray better appreciate this, she thought.
Pumping party hardly seemed like an appropriate term.
“Lorraine, are you ready?” a voice startled her.
Ernie stood at the end of the sofa wearing a black polo shirt—collar standing up stiffly—and tan cargo shorts. His piercing blue eyes battled with his jet-black hair for facial supremacy. A thin moustache and sunken cheeks gave him a look that was part sinister, part wimp.
Lorraine stood and extended her hand.
“Hi, umm, Ernie,” she said nervously.
Ernie ignored the hand, turned and walked away. “Why don’t you follow me?”
Despite the inner voice telling her this was her last chance to get away; she followed Ernie through a dining room, down a short hallway and into a small bedroom. Except for the cream colored carpet, ceiling fan and brown window blinds, there was nothing else present that belonged in a bedroom. There was a bed that looked more like a gurney in the middle of the room. A large swivel lamp loomed over it. Beside the bed was a stainless steel platform on wheels, like the kind a dentist uses to hold his instruments. It was covered with syringes.
Against the wall was a set of metal shelves full of small boxes. On the floor next to the bed were three white five-gallon buckets.
Lorraine could still hear the television from the other room—closer now—but now the laughter was deeper, probably Passion’s.
“Ok, sweetie,” Ernie said, “take off everything from the waist down and hop up on the bed for me—face down.”
Lorraine was suddenly struck by the realization that she would have to take her pants off in front of this total stranger. Embarrassment joined the nervousness and she felt a wave of nausea.
“Come on, now,” Ernie said with a mixture of impatience and sympathy. “I see more butts and boobs than you can imagine. Don’t be shy.”
She turned her back, slid her flip-flops off, unbuckled her belt and stepped out of her jeans. As she folded them neatly and placed them on the floor, the inner voice pleaded with her to escape while she could. She took a deep breath and slid her panties off, thanking God she hadn’t worn anything too…personal. She dropped them on top of her jeans to avoid bending over…naked. She climbed onto the bed as gracefully as she could and positioned herself face down, as instructed.
For several minutes Ernie said nothing, but he looked at her buttocks from every conceivable angle—pinched and prodded, then took out a felt tip pen and began drawing on her behind. This was worse than her first trip to the OB-GYN. She wanted to die. She closed her eyes as if it would take her away.
Finally, Ernie spoke.
“Ok, this will pinch, but you’ll get used to it.”
He wasn’t kidding. The first one felt like a hornet had stung her butt cheek, and was followed by the sensation of a worm crawling under her skin.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she began to wish she had bought Ray a new fishing pole for his birthday.
Fifteen minutes into the procedure, as Ernie had promised, she grew used to the feeling, although the humiliation lingered on. After thirty minutes, she had almost pushed the entire experience out of her mind by telling herself it would all be over soon.
Around the sixty-minute mark a new, odd feeling came over her. Writing it off as more nerves, she said nothing and pushed through. Ernie hummed a song Lorraine recognized from the eighties as he worked.
As Ernie began humming a different tune, possibly Michael Jackson – she wasn’t sure - her head began to feel like it was filled with liquid that was constantly expanding and contracting. The sensation brought back the nausea, but this time she couldn’t control it. She willed herself not to be sick, but lost the battle. Before she could say anything to Ernie, she vomited violently. The thick, yellowish mixture of partially digested lasagna and bile hit the wall in front of her and splashed back into her face.
As the room spun out of control, Lorraine tried to find a focal point. She zeroed in on one of the white buckets, but the pooled vomit on the lid only added to the problem.
The situation went from bizarre to surreal. Ernie yelled for Passion, his voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a metal barrel. Through a mental fog, Lorraine heard doors slamming and voices talking in panicked tones, but she was unable to decipher what they said.
The vomiting ceased, but the relief was short-lived. Her breathing became labored. It felt as though an invisible car was parked on her back. With no strength to move, she was pinned to the bed.
Lorraine felt Ray’s presence. He was stroking her hair and telling her everything would be okay.
Finally, her brain told her to stop fighting. The pain went away. She closed her eyes, knowing she would never open them again.
1
The silence inside the house was broken by the doorbell.
She studied a group of bugs hovering around the porch light, watching them absently as they bounced off the glass globe only to fly right back toward it. Sweat formed at the base of her spine, either from nerves or the humid Florida night.
Blurred movement through the opaque glass of the door caught her eye. The door swung open and Lorraine found herself face to face with an enigma.
“You must be Lorraine,” the person said. “I’m Passion, come on in.”
Passion smiled widely, showing teeth that were whiter than a snow-covered polar bear, and stepped aside for Lorraine to enter.
The first thing Lorraine noticed about the house was the smell. There were two distinct odors struggling for dominance. One was vanilla, probably a plug-in air freshener. Just beneath the vanilla was the same odor that had lingered in Lorraine’s bathroom for a few days after the workers had finished repairing a leaky shower door. The combination was slightly nauseating.
Passion led Lorraine to the living room and motioned for her to sit on the sofa. The sound of a television came from another room, mixed with the cackling laughter of whoever watched it.
“Now, you just relax,” Passion said in a husky voice. “Ernie’ll be right out.”
Lorraine hoped Passion hadn’t noticed her stare. She prayed that the confusion she felt wasn’t visible on her face. Passion’s appearance was a testament to yin and yang. Thick, bleached blonde hair, penciled-on eyebrows, full—almost too full—pouty lips and D-sized breasts were the yin…while the hard, muscular biceps, strong, meaty hands and the bulge in the crotch area were the yang. Passion was a walking contradiction.
The riddle of Passion’s gender quickly faded as Lorraine suddenly noticed she was cold. A continuous stream of tremors raced throughout her body and she wished Suzanne had come with her as planned; especially since this whole thing was Suzanne’s idea to begin with.
It started as simple office chit-chat. Lorraine mentioned to Suzanne that she needed advice on what to get her husband for his fortieth birthday. Suzanne blurted her suggestion almost as if she had been waiting to be asked.
“Ray is always saying you have no ass, so get one and give him something to hold on to,” Suzanne had said.
Lorraine had laughed about it at first, but since she was having trouble coming up with anything else, she finally gave in and asked Suzanne for more information.
And now, here she was.
A weak smile crossed her face when she remembered the day Suzanne had unbuttoned her shirt and pulled up her bra in the ladies’ room at work, demanding that Lorraine feel her breasts.
“Trust me,” Suzanne said, “In one pumping party, Ernie took me from the Great Plains to the Rocky Mountains. Go ahead, give ‘em a squeeze. Matt loves ‘em.”
It was certainly true, Ernie had greatly enhanced Suzanne’s shape last month and her fiancé was ecstatic about it.
“Was it painful?” Lorraine had asked.
“Once you get past the first ten needles, it’s a piece of cake.”
“What does that kind of thing cost?”
“He charged me four hundred, but he might charge you eight. Still cheaper than a plastic surgeon.”
Suzanne would have been here if she hadn’t gotten sick. Lorraine wondered how her friend was doing—she had to be taken to the emergency room last night and Lorraine thought about cancelling the appointment, but she couldn’t find the paper with Ernie’s phone number.
The anticipation was ramping up and even though she was cold, she felt sweat rolling under her armpits. Eight hundred dollars and an unknown number of needles—Ray better appreciate this, she thought.
Pumping party hardly seemed like an appropriate term.
“Lorraine, are you ready?” a voice startled her.
Ernie stood at the end of the sofa wearing a black polo shirt—collar standing up stiffly—and tan cargo shorts. His piercing blue eyes battled with his jet-black hair for facial supremacy. A thin moustache and sunken cheeks gave him a look that was part sinister, part wimp.
Lorraine stood and extended her hand.
“Hi, umm, Ernie,” she said nervously.
Ernie ignored the hand, turned and walked away. “Why don’t you follow me?”
Despite the inner voice telling her this was her last chance to get away; she followed Ernie through a dining room, down a short hallway and into a small bedroom. Except for the cream colored carpet, ceiling fan and brown window blinds, there was nothing else present that belonged in a bedroom. There was a bed that looked more like a gurney in the middle of the room. A large swivel lamp loomed over it. Beside the bed was a stainless steel platform on wheels, like the kind a dentist uses to hold his instruments. It was covered with syringes.
Against the wall was a set of metal shelves full of small boxes. On the floor next to the bed were three white five-gallon buckets.
Lorraine could still hear the television from the other room—closer now—but now the laughter was deeper, probably Passion’s.
“Ok, sweetie,” Ernie said, “take off everything from the waist down and hop up on the bed for me—face down.”
Lorraine was suddenly struck by the realization that she would have to take her pants off in front of this total stranger. Embarrassment joined the nervousness and she felt a wave of nausea.
“Come on, now,” Ernie said with a mixture of impatience and sympathy. “I see more butts and boobs than you can imagine. Don’t be shy.”
She turned her back, slid her flip-flops off, unbuckled her belt and stepped out of her jeans. As she folded them neatly and placed them on the floor, the inner voice pleaded with her to escape while she could. She took a deep breath and slid her panties off, thanking God she hadn’t worn anything too…personal. She dropped them on top of her jeans to avoid bending over…naked. She climbed onto the bed as gracefully as she could and positioned herself face down, as instructed.
For several minutes Ernie said nothing, but he looked at her buttocks from every conceivable angle—pinched and prodded, then took out a felt tip pen and began drawing on her behind. This was worse than her first trip to the OB-GYN. She wanted to die. She closed her eyes as if it would take her away.
Finally, Ernie spoke.
“Ok, this will pinch, but you’ll get used to it.”
He wasn’t kidding. The first one felt like a hornet had stung her butt cheek, and was followed by the sensation of a worm crawling under her skin.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she began to wish she had bought Ray a new fishing pole for his birthday.
Fifteen minutes into the procedure, as Ernie had promised, she grew used to the feeling, although the humiliation lingered on. After thirty minutes, she had almost pushed the entire experience out of her mind by telling herself it would all be over soon.
Around the sixty-minute mark a new, odd feeling came over her. Writing it off as more nerves, she said nothing and pushed through. Ernie hummed a song Lorraine recognized from the eighties as he worked.
As Ernie began humming a different tune, possibly Michael Jackson – she wasn’t sure - her head began to feel like it was filled with liquid that was constantly expanding and contracting. The sensation brought back the nausea, but this time she couldn’t control it. She willed herself not to be sick, but lost the battle. Before she could say anything to Ernie, she vomited violently. The thick, yellowish mixture of partially digested lasagna and bile hit the wall in front of her and splashed back into her face.
As the room spun out of control, Lorraine tried to find a focal point. She zeroed in on one of the white buckets, but the pooled vomit on the lid only added to the problem.
The situation went from bizarre to surreal. Ernie yelled for Passion, his voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a metal barrel. Through a mental fog, Lorraine heard doors slamming and voices talking in panicked tones, but she was unable to decipher what they said.
The vomiting ceased, but the relief was short-lived. Her breathing became labored. It felt as though an invisible car was parked on her back. With no strength to move, she was pinned to the bed.
Lorraine felt Ray’s presence. He was stroking her hair and telling her everything would be okay.
Finally, her brain told her to stop fighting. The pain went away. She closed her eyes, knowing she would never open them again.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Romeo by Tim Baker
In the summer of 1964 I was 11 years old.
As far as 11-year-olds went I was an average kid. I did fine in school, I had lots of friends. I loved sports and G.I. Joe. I hated vegetables and my younger sister.
Statistically I fell into the category that seemed prevalent in my part of town, another child from a broken home being raised by a single mother on welfare.
We lived in a quiet area with no violence, the sort of place where you could leave your doors unlocked all of the time. Everybody was friends with everybody else.
There was one interloper though.
Nobody knew his real name, everyone called him Romeo, for his tendency to “roam” the streets of the neighborhood constantly with no apparent destination. For that matter he had no known point of origin either, but every day, regardless of the weather, he would walk by my house between 8:30 and 8:45 a.m.
He stood about 5’-3” and was slightly underweight. The permanent smile attached to his pumpkin shaped face gave him the look of a harmless gnome. As for his age, I had him pegged for somewhere between 60 and 125. His wardrobe was as constant as his schedule. Long brown woolen overcoat that was much older than I was, a tattered black knit watch cap, flannel shirt and tan work pants that hadn’t seen a washing machine since the Great Depression and worn brown work boots with soles as thin as paper.
As he walked he continually worked his hands as though he was trying to wash them and he talked to himself in a non-stop stream of nonsensical gibberish. His voice was only slightly more masculine than Mickey Mouse.
During that summer I had a friend named Al who lived three quarters of a mile from my house. Since it was summer vacation I would get out of bed at the first sign of light in the morning, eat my Cap’n Crunch while watching Captain Kangaroo, grab my baseball glove and rush to Al’s house in order to begin the day’s adventures.
After the first week of vacation I noticed that Romeo and I had the same schedule, he would be walking by my house just as I was leaving to go to Al’s. At first I shied away from him, sometimes running all the way to Al’s in order to avoid him. After all there were rumors rampant in the neighborhood that he was everything from an escaped mental patient to a crazed war veteran who was nearly blown to smithereens by a hand grenade, and everything imaginable in between.
During the third week of vacation I was on my way out of the front yard heading to Al’s and sure enough Romeo was just passing the front yard. Doing my best to avoid him I hooked my baseball glove over the handle of my Louisville Slugger and put the bat on my shoulder as I began running. Unfortunately the glove slipped off the handle of the bat and landed right between my feet causing me to go ass over tea kettle into the street directly in the path of a Ford station wagon.
I was so distracted and it happened so fast that I don’t know what I was aware of first, the vision of a white wall tire rapidly approaching my head, or the grip of a meaty hand on the back of my tee-shirt pulling me out of harms way. The one thing I was sure of was that despite the screeching tire and the thick white smoke pluming behind it, the car was not going to stop in time to avoid crushing my head the way a size 10 work boot would crush a spider.
When I recovered from the initial shock I turned to look at my savior, Romeo. He mumbled something incomprehensible and smiled at me before setting me down and continuing on his way.
For the rest of the summer Romeo and I walked to Al’s house together every day. His smile was ever present and he spoke continuously, although I never did understand a word he said. At times I would say things to him and he would look at me and smile before a string of jumbled words flowed from his mouth. I never knew if he was responding to what I had said or if it was just a continuation of what he had been uttering before I interrupted him.
It didn’t matter, we were friends. There was no clear cut communication between us, but I saw it in his eyes. For the rest of the summer I endured the taunts from all the kids in the neighborhood for associating with a known loonie, because he was my friend.
Shortly before school started that September my Mom got a job two towns away and we had to move. It was our first real house she said, one that we could call our own. I didn’t know what that meant; I thought the house we were renting was our own.
I never saw Romeo again.
Over the years I often wondered what happened to him. A few years ago I decided to research my old friend.
It wasn’t easy but what I found was that Romeo’s real name was Sol Weismann. After being liberated from a Nazi concentration camp in 1945 he was brought to the U.S. and spent the rest of his life in a series of institutions for the mentally ill, one of which was just a mile or two from where I lived that summer.
He died in 1976 at the age of 67 leaving no known family.
I have often tried to imagine the horrors that he witnessed and the pain that he suffered for most of his life, all that the hands of people to whom he had done no wrong. Yet his smile was as constant as the stars in the night sky. Those memories helped to forge my outlook on life. I resist the urge to judge people, or to criticize that which I don’t know. I never refuse the friendship of another for any reason. But perhaps the thing that I try to remember the most is that no matter how hopeless life may seem, how insurmountable my problems may be, they are insignificant compared to some.Romeo saved my life in the summer of 1964 and he continues to save it to this day.
As far as 11-year-olds went I was an average kid. I did fine in school, I had lots of friends. I loved sports and G.I. Joe. I hated vegetables and my younger sister.
Statistically I fell into the category that seemed prevalent in my part of town, another child from a broken home being raised by a single mother on welfare.
We lived in a quiet area with no violence, the sort of place where you could leave your doors unlocked all of the time. Everybody was friends with everybody else.
There was one interloper though.
Nobody knew his real name, everyone called him Romeo, for his tendency to “roam” the streets of the neighborhood constantly with no apparent destination. For that matter he had no known point of origin either, but every day, regardless of the weather, he would walk by my house between 8:30 and 8:45 a.m.
He stood about 5’-3” and was slightly underweight. The permanent smile attached to his pumpkin shaped face gave him the look of a harmless gnome. As for his age, I had him pegged for somewhere between 60 and 125. His wardrobe was as constant as his schedule. Long brown woolen overcoat that was much older than I was, a tattered black knit watch cap, flannel shirt and tan work pants that hadn’t seen a washing machine since the Great Depression and worn brown work boots with soles as thin as paper.
As he walked he continually worked his hands as though he was trying to wash them and he talked to himself in a non-stop stream of nonsensical gibberish. His voice was only slightly more masculine than Mickey Mouse.
During that summer I had a friend named Al who lived three quarters of a mile from my house. Since it was summer vacation I would get out of bed at the first sign of light in the morning, eat my Cap’n Crunch while watching Captain Kangaroo, grab my baseball glove and rush to Al’s house in order to begin the day’s adventures.
After the first week of vacation I noticed that Romeo and I had the same schedule, he would be walking by my house just as I was leaving to go to Al’s. At first I shied away from him, sometimes running all the way to Al’s in order to avoid him. After all there were rumors rampant in the neighborhood that he was everything from an escaped mental patient to a crazed war veteran who was nearly blown to smithereens by a hand grenade, and everything imaginable in between.
During the third week of vacation I was on my way out of the front yard heading to Al’s and sure enough Romeo was just passing the front yard. Doing my best to avoid him I hooked my baseball glove over the handle of my Louisville Slugger and put the bat on my shoulder as I began running. Unfortunately the glove slipped off the handle of the bat and landed right between my feet causing me to go ass over tea kettle into the street directly in the path of a Ford station wagon.
I was so distracted and it happened so fast that I don’t know what I was aware of first, the vision of a white wall tire rapidly approaching my head, or the grip of a meaty hand on the back of my tee-shirt pulling me out of harms way. The one thing I was sure of was that despite the screeching tire and the thick white smoke pluming behind it, the car was not going to stop in time to avoid crushing my head the way a size 10 work boot would crush a spider.
When I recovered from the initial shock I turned to look at my savior, Romeo. He mumbled something incomprehensible and smiled at me before setting me down and continuing on his way.
For the rest of the summer Romeo and I walked to Al’s house together every day. His smile was ever present and he spoke continuously, although I never did understand a word he said. At times I would say things to him and he would look at me and smile before a string of jumbled words flowed from his mouth. I never knew if he was responding to what I had said or if it was just a continuation of what he had been uttering before I interrupted him.
It didn’t matter, we were friends. There was no clear cut communication between us, but I saw it in his eyes. For the rest of the summer I endured the taunts from all the kids in the neighborhood for associating with a known loonie, because he was my friend.
Shortly before school started that September my Mom got a job two towns away and we had to move. It was our first real house she said, one that we could call our own. I didn’t know what that meant; I thought the house we were renting was our own.
I never saw Romeo again.
Over the years I often wondered what happened to him. A few years ago I decided to research my old friend.
It wasn’t easy but what I found was that Romeo’s real name was Sol Weismann. After being liberated from a Nazi concentration camp in 1945 he was brought to the U.S. and spent the rest of his life in a series of institutions for the mentally ill, one of which was just a mile or two from where I lived that summer.
He died in 1976 at the age of 67 leaving no known family.
I have often tried to imagine the horrors that he witnessed and the pain that he suffered for most of his life, all that the hands of people to whom he had done no wrong. Yet his smile was as constant as the stars in the night sky. Those memories helped to forge my outlook on life. I resist the urge to judge people, or to criticize that which I don’t know. I never refuse the friendship of another for any reason. But perhaps the thing that I try to remember the most is that no matter how hopeless life may seem, how insurmountable my problems may be, they are insignificant compared to some.Romeo saved my life in the summer of 1964 and he continues to save it to this day.
The Demon II by Tim Baker
The Demon by Tim Baker
The darkness was complete, relieved only by intermittent flashes of white brilliance followed by thunder claps that would silence a freight train. The rain threatened to tear the skin from my bones.
I couldn’t run anymore. I couldn’t imagine an agony worse than my own heart exploding from a combination of terror and exhaustion.
I stumbled through an eternal void until my head struck my own tombstone.
Rolling onto my back I confronted the demon that pursued me.
There was no silver bullet to save me and no wooden stake to drive through its heart.
I was my only weapon and I had nothing left to fight with.
The voice came through the black void and drowned out the thunder.
“It’s time.”
I tried to resist the bony fingers that gripped my shoulder. I screamed an incomprehensible protest.
The skeletal vise tightened as I tried to retreat into the tombstone behind me.
“Resistance will only cause more suffering,” the voice from beyond the grave said.
Thunder roared as the rain pelted me.
Somewhere in the distance voices cried for mercy as the demon reached for other souls.
I heard mine the loudest.
The demon thrust a sword into my hand. Against my wishes, my fingers curled around the beautifully carved handle.
Lightning ricocheted off the gleaming razor-sharp edge, mesmerizing me and draining my will to fight, surely something so perfectly crafted would not harm me.
Acting on its own volition my hand raised the lustrous blade over my throbbing chest.
The demon’s laugh pierced my ears and reverberated through my skull.
“Gaze on the beauty that will carve a piece of your soul for me,” it cried with perverse delight.
A scream died in my throat, my depleted body strained to summon whatever strength was left.
The blade moved closer to my chest. With every inch my will to fight lessened and the demon’s screams of pleasure soared.
Summoning the last of my strength, I looked into the eyes of the demon.
“It is pointless,” the demon roared over the thunder. “You are unable to fight me. You will be mine.”
I stared defiantly into his icy black eyes. The longer I locked eyes with him the more strength I found.
The knife stopped its journey and hovered above my chest, a small victory that gave me the will to continue the battle.
I forced the blade higher, my strength increased and I regained the ability to speak.
“I will not surrender,” I told the demon.
The demon grew quiet. The rain stopped. The lightning and the thunder seemed to move away.
I could feel the demon’s fear. I had only to release the handle of the sword and I would be free.
“Do not let go,” the demon begged weakly.
“You will not take me tonight,” I said.
I released my grip on the blade as the sun broke through the clouds. The sword vanished.
The demon retreated with the darkness.
I stood and raised my face to the warmth of the sun. I was fearless. I had the energy of ten men.
The demon was gone. I had beaten him off and survived the ordeal. I was free.
It has been a long time since I defeated the demon but I did not kill him. He still lurks in the shadows of my spirit waiting for my weakness to open the door.
Every day the battle begins anew and every day I call upon myself to fight.
And every victory is easier than the one before.
The darkness was complete, relieved only by intermittent flashes of white brilliance followed by thunder claps that would silence a freight train. The rain threatened to tear the skin from my bones.
I couldn’t run anymore. I couldn’t imagine an agony worse than my own heart exploding from a combination of terror and exhaustion.
I stumbled through an eternal void until my head struck my own tombstone.
Rolling onto my back I confronted the demon that pursued me.
There was no silver bullet to save me and no wooden stake to drive through its heart.
I was my only weapon and I had nothing left to fight with.
The voice came through the black void and drowned out the thunder.
“It’s time.”
I tried to resist the bony fingers that gripped my shoulder. I screamed an incomprehensible protest.
The skeletal vise tightened as I tried to retreat into the tombstone behind me.
“Resistance will only cause more suffering,” the voice from beyond the grave said.
Thunder roared as the rain pelted me.
Somewhere in the distance voices cried for mercy as the demon reached for other souls.
I heard mine the loudest.
The demon thrust a sword into my hand. Against my wishes, my fingers curled around the beautifully carved handle.
Lightning ricocheted off the gleaming razor-sharp edge, mesmerizing me and draining my will to fight, surely something so perfectly crafted would not harm me.
Acting on its own volition my hand raised the lustrous blade over my throbbing chest.
The demon’s laugh pierced my ears and reverberated through my skull.
“Gaze on the beauty that will carve a piece of your soul for me,” it cried with perverse delight.
A scream died in my throat, my depleted body strained to summon whatever strength was left.
The blade moved closer to my chest. With every inch my will to fight lessened and the demon’s screams of pleasure soared.
Summoning the last of my strength, I looked into the eyes of the demon.
“It is pointless,” the demon roared over the thunder. “You are unable to fight me. You will be mine.”
I stared defiantly into his icy black eyes. The longer I locked eyes with him the more strength I found.
The knife stopped its journey and hovered above my chest, a small victory that gave me the will to continue the battle.
I forced the blade higher, my strength increased and I regained the ability to speak.
“I will not surrender,” I told the demon.
The demon grew quiet. The rain stopped. The lightning and the thunder seemed to move away.
I could feel the demon’s fear. I had only to release the handle of the sword and I would be free.
“Do not let go,” the demon begged weakly.
“You will not take me tonight,” I said.
I released my grip on the blade as the sun broke through the clouds. The sword vanished.
The demon retreated with the darkness.
I stood and raised my face to the warmth of the sun. I was fearless. I had the energy of ten men.
The demon was gone. I had beaten him off and survived the ordeal. I was free.
It has been a long time since I defeated the demon but I did not kill him. He still lurks in the shadows of my spirit waiting for my weakness to open the door.
Every day the battle begins anew and every day I call upon myself to fight.
And every victory is easier than the one before.
The Demon by Tim Baker
The Demon by Tim Baker
The darkness was complete, relieved only by intermittent flashes of white brilliance followed by thunder claps that would silence a freight train. The rain threatened to tear the skin from my bones.
I couldn’t run anymore. I couldn’t imagine an agony worse than my own heart exploding from a combination of terror and exhaustion.
Perhaps in an attempt to satisfy my desire for death my foot found an immovable object hurtling me through an eternal void until my head struck the tombstone of somebody whom I had never met.
Rolling onto my back I decided to face the demon that pursued me.
There was no silver bullet to save me and no wooden stake to drive through its heart.
I was my only weapon and I had nothing left to fight with.
The voice came through the black void and drowned out the thunder.
“It’s time.”
Part of me tried to fight the bony fingers that gripped my shoulder.
I heard myself scream an incomprehensible protest.
The skeletal vise tightened on my shoulder as I tried to retreat into the tombstone behind me.
“It’s time,” the voice from beyond the grave said.
Thunder roared as the rain pelted me.
Somewhere in the distance voices cried for mercy as the demon reached for other souls.
Mine was the loudest.
Somehow my arm came up to shield my face from the bright light emanating from the demon’s fingertips.
“It’s time,” my mother said. “Come on, it’s time to wake up.”
The darkness was complete, relieved only by intermittent flashes of white brilliance followed by thunder claps that would silence a freight train. The rain threatened to tear the skin from my bones.
I couldn’t run anymore. I couldn’t imagine an agony worse than my own heart exploding from a combination of terror and exhaustion.
Perhaps in an attempt to satisfy my desire for death my foot found an immovable object hurtling me through an eternal void until my head struck the tombstone of somebody whom I had never met.
Rolling onto my back I decided to face the demon that pursued me.
There was no silver bullet to save me and no wooden stake to drive through its heart.
I was my only weapon and I had nothing left to fight with.
The voice came through the black void and drowned out the thunder.
“It’s time.”
Part of me tried to fight the bony fingers that gripped my shoulder.
I heard myself scream an incomprehensible protest.
The skeletal vise tightened on my shoulder as I tried to retreat into the tombstone behind me.
“It’s time,” the voice from beyond the grave said.
Thunder roared as the rain pelted me.
Somewhere in the distance voices cried for mercy as the demon reached for other souls.
Mine was the loudest.
Somehow my arm came up to shield my face from the bright light emanating from the demon’s fingertips.
“It’s time,” my mother said. “Come on, it’s time to wake up.”
Water Hazard by Tim Baker
"When the well is dry, we learn the worth of water."Benjamin Franklin
Water Hazard
By Tim Baker
Preface
The motor home glided along Route 40 toward the Ocala National Forest effortlessly pushing the warm night air aside. In its wake it left a turbulent mixture of dead love bugs and diesel fumes.
From his perch in the driver’s seat, 76-year-old Herb Thomas watched the black carpet of Florida highway roll up to and pass beneath his wheels like the mat of a gigantic treadmill. The moonless night and unlit back country road prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet ahead. His headlights preceded him through the solid wall of night.
Theresa stretched her arms over her head and yawned from the passenger seat. Taking his eyes from the road briefly he looked over at his wife.
“Did you have a nice nap?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she offered. “How long was I out?”
“Only about a half hour,” he told her.
“Where are we?”
“Coming up to the St. John’s River, we’ve still got an hour and a half to go.”
The inside of the RV was quiet with the exception of oldies soundtrack coming from the satellite radio receiver. Herb gently guided the vehicle around a slight bend in the road. As he rounded the curve he spotted a set of headlights in his side view mirror. Either the vehicle had been riding very close to his rear end or it had come up quickly because he hadn’t seen a car in the last thirty minutes.
Up ahead he noticed the flashing red drawbridge light and saw the gate arm was down. Lifting his foot from the gas pedal he let the RV coast to a stop. The two halves of the draw bridge extended skyward like two skyscrapers tilted slightly towards one another.
The Searchers sang about “Love Potion Number Nine” as Herb waited for the bridge to lower.
In his peripheral vision Herb noticed the glow of headlights come to a rest behind him. A few seconds later as he watched a tugboat pull a barge along the river, he was startled by a quiet tep on his window.
A well-dressed man in his mid-thirties stood on the street holding a road map in his hand and used the universal sign for Herb to roll his window down. Herb did so and politely asked the man if he needed help.
“Yes sir,” the man said in a gentle southern drawl. “I seem to have gotten myself good and lost.”
The man held up the road map and stepped closer to the RV as Herb put the shifter in park and climbed down to offer assistance.
“Where’re you headed?” Herb asked stepping up for a look at the map, only to see that it was a map of Minnesota. Herb got an immediate sense that something was wrong but as he looked up he found himself looking into the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
His first thought was that this man didn’t look like the type to be carrying a gun. He was well dressed with neat black hair and handsome brown eyes. The only flaw in his face was the familiar scar of cleft palette surgery on his upper lip.
“Just get on back in the motor home sir,” he told Herb in a polite tone that was totally contradictory to the gun in his hand.
Herb stumbled up the step into the vehicle as Theresa sang the final fade out chorus with The Searchers. The man nudged Herb with the gun and told him to climb over the seat and sit on the floor next to his wife. Then he leaned back and signaled to the vehicle behind them. Herb heard a car door open and close. A second man trotted up behind the first. Herb could not see him due to his position on the floor.
“All right then, Donny,” the first man said, “it’s all up to you now.”
“You got it, Mitch,” Donny replied.
Theresa looked over in confusion.
“Herb, what’s going on?” she asked with a slight tremor of fear in her voice.
Herb raised a calming hand to her and said to Donny, “What is it you want from us?”
Donny climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled at Herb. The smile was one that contained not a shred of humor. It was the smile of a scorpion about to sting an unsuspecting beetle.
“Y’all just sit there and be quiet,” he told them.
Theresa gripped Herbs upper arm and began whimpering softly.
Donny settled himself into the seat and put the shift lever back into drive. Herb saw a .45 Colt pistol tucked into the waistband of his tattered blue jeans. Thick mud was caked on his battered work boots. There was a cigarette tucked behind his right ear, partially covered by his greasy brown hair. A tattoo of a spider perched in its web covered most of the right side of his neck.
After a few minutes the drawbridge lowered and the RV was moving west again. Several miles later on a dark and desolate stretch of road Donny eased the RV onto the grass shoulder.
“Awright folks, let’s go on back into the living room and get cozy, shall we?” Donny said in mock politeness as he withdrew the gun and pointed to the back of the RV.
Herb held Theresa by the hand and led her to the living area. Her hand trembled uncontrollably in his.
“Sit your asses down there on the floor,” Donny ordered.
Herb helped Theresa to the floor and sat beside her, his eyes glared at Donny. His mind went back to a time when he was a 20 year-old marine, full of piss and vinegar. That marine would have taken this redneck apart piece by piece. Now his body would not allow it. The voice of his platoon sergeant, a huge Texan named Roy Anderson, came back to him.
“We’re all gonna die, just make sure that when you’re time comes you die like a marine.”
Herb put his arm around his crying wife’s shoulders and told her it was ok. Then he looked at Donny and sat up as straight as he could, taking a deep breath.
“Get it over with you coward,” Herb said defiantly.
Confusion grew in Donny’s eyes as he looked at Herb. Herb could tell that Donny lacked the intelligence to know that he had just been insulted by a man who knew he was about to die. After a few seconds of unproductive consideration Donny shrugged, pointed the gun and fired two shots in quick succession.
He looked at the two bodies lying on the floor, the old man’s arm still around his wife’s shoulders, and shrugged again.
“I guess you really don’t know when to shut up, old man,” he muttered as he turned and left the RV.
Outside Mitch was standing by the rear of the vehicle waiting with a gas can and a rag. He handed the gas can to Donny and then he went to the gas filler spout and stuffed the rag into the opening. Donny spread gas around the perimeter of the RV and dumped the last of it on the rag hanging out of the gas tank fill spout. He heaved the gas can into the woods and walked back to the showroom-clean white pickup truck. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and handed it to Mitch, who lit it, took a long drag and flicked it at the RV as he blew out a long cloud of smoke.
The mammoth vehicle was instantly surrounded by a ring of fire. The two men climbed into the truck and backed away. Mitch turned the wheel and they headed east on Route 40. Donny turned in his seat to see the show and Mitch watched in the rear view mirror.
The explosion was tremendous. It shook the ground and filled the night sky with an orange glow as flames shot fifty feet into the air. Pieces of the RV flew off in silent trajectories through the night, creating a 100-foot wide debris field.
As the furor subsided the flames continued to devour the skeletal remains of the $300,000 Country Coach.
Donny picked up the pack of Marlboros from the dashboard and withdrew two. One he put behind his ear, the other he handed to Mitch.
The spotless white truck rolled silently away from the inferno and towards the black horizon.
1
Justin DiPrete pressed himself against the concrete block wall and tried to calm himself down. The wall radiated the heat that it had taken from the hot Florida sun during the day, warming his back while the crisp night air kept his face cool. The temperature differential gave him a slight nauseous feeling. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he tried to slow down his racing heart and stop his legs from shaking. To his right Russell peeked around the corner of the building, which wasn’t even a building yet. It was the bare bones of what would be a building someday. Right now it was only a two and a half story concrete block shell with no roof. The soft sandy ground around it was a dusty mine field of construction debris. Justin wished he was somewhere else, anywhere else.
Russell brought his head back from around the corner and turned to Justin.
“It’s cool, let’s go,” he whispered.
Without a sound Russell was gone. Justin took another deep breath and trotted after him. They made their way to a dumpster and crouched behind it. Russell crept to the corner and peered around.
“Be all clear, let’s do it,” he said softly as he stood and sprinted away.
Justin followed him and they reached the car together where they both sat with their backs against the flawless silver paint. It was a nice new Lexus and it had been parked there all day. Russell told Justin if the car was still there that night they were going back for a smash and grab.
Justin often tried to figure out why he let Russell talk him into these things. Russell didn’t seem to care if they got caught or not, as if he was wanted to ruin his future. Justin, on the other hand, was terrified of being caught and having a police record that could ruin his chances of going to college. Several times he had tried to say no, but Russell would always manage to persuade him into going along. Maybe it was a loyalty thing. Russell was the first friend Justin had made when he came to Florida three years ago and for all intents and purposes remained his only friend. When Russell started going through his delinquent phase Justin figured it wouldn’t last long. Now it was looking as though Russell enjoyed it too much and had no intention of stopping. Justin truly believed that his friend would get arrested before they graduated high school the following year. The dilemma that he faced was whether to follow him and throw his life away or go his own way and lose a friend.
Russell stood and looked into the car.
“Look like a nice stereo,” he whispered to Justin. “Lemme have your sweatshirt.”
Justin pulled his hooded Florida Marlins sweatshirt over his head and handed it to Russell. Russell found a piece of concrete block on the ground and wrapped the sweatshirt around it.
Justin looked at the dark outline of the trailer that acted as the construction office 20 feet away and prayed that there was nobody inside that would be alerted by a loud noise. Even though there were no lights on or other signs of life he still worried that someone was there.
There was a large sign standing in front of the trailer. Justin had seen it many times in the light of day and despite the darkness he could still make out the rendering of a golf course with a cluster of condominium buildings around it. So far 12 of the buildings had been started and they all sat in various stages of completion. According to the sign there would eventually be 51 buildings and a community center with a pool house. Not to mention tennis courts and a bicycle path. Huge green letters boasted that the “Stillwater Resort” would be “Another Golf Community by The Hall & White Development Corp.” As he was reading about the amenities that would be offered for bargain prices starting in the low 400’s his thoughts were interrupted by a loud pop followed by the sound of thousands of pieces of broken glass falling to the ground and into the car.
Both boys froze in place, neither of them so much as taking a breath. They waited for the sound of an alarm like sprinters poised for the starters gun. After three agonizingly long seconds they let out their breath and went about business.
Russell opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat where he used the concrete block to smash the dome light. Justin scooted over and squatted by the open door. Russell handed him a black vinyl case full of compact discs. Then he passed out a wrist watch and a wallet. As Justin put his sweatshirt back on and stuffed the pilfered items into the belly-pocket, Russell went to work on the stereo.
Russell struggled with the stereo while Justin waited impatiently, a visceral fear spreading through his body like wildfire. Something was wrong, he was sure of it.
“Almost,” Russell grunted.
Justin looked into the vehicle and realized that something wasn’t making sense. There was a faint wash of light spreading through the interior of the car. As he watched, the light grew until Russell’s face was bathed in bright light. His fear escalated to panic.
The sound of an engine came over the night air towards them. Two bright white orbs of light approached them on the road 100 feet away.
Frozen in terror, the two boys looked at the headlights and then at each other.
Finally Russell hissed “Shit, time to de-ass.”
With no further communication they sprang from their positions and bolted back the way they came. Russell was about two strides in front of Justin when they reached the dumpster. Without slowing down or looking back they ran until they reached a dried up retention pond. They followed the muddy edge where the water used to be until they reached a path that eventually brought them to A1A.
From the shoulder of the road they scanned the highway in the direction of the construction site entrance. Seeing nothing to indicate that they had been spotted, they darted across the road and ran through the parking lot of a burned out restaurant. They continued running until the parking lot ended and they were on the beach.
With adrenaline still coursing through their systems they ran for nearly half a mile. When they finally ran out of steam they walked up a set of wooden stairs and stood under a small gazebo looking for signs of pursuit. They were at the intersection of State Road 100 and A1A in Flagler Beach and all looked quiet. Across the street, on the roof of a restaurant called Donnegan’s, a band played and Justin could hear people having a good time. A large tattooed biker staggered down the stairs, leaving his friends behind to carry on the festivities. He called parting shots to them as he headed for his motorcycle at the back of the parking lot.
After waiting for two large tanker trucks to roll by Justin and Russell walked as calmly as they could across the street and fell in about three steps behind the biker. Passing under a street light Justin took out the wallet from the car and opened it. There was a decent amount of cash in it, which he pocketed and tossed the wallet aside.
“Yo,” someone yelled behind them. Both boys froze and looked at each other in terror. Justin felt sweat break out on his forehead almost immediately.
“Shit,” he thought to himself, “we’re fucked.”
“Yo, Bam-Bam,” the voice yelled again.
The biker turned around and looked at Justin.
“You call me?” he asked in a drunken slur.
“What? No, it wasn’t me,” Justin stammered.
The biker looked past them and they turned around to see another biker, just as large and just as tattooed as Bam-Bam, walking down the stairs.
“You might need these,” the second biker called, holding up a key ring.
Bam-Bam tapped at his pockets, finding no keys he said “Hey thanks Todd.”
Todd tossed the keys to Bam-Bam, who dropped them. As he bent to pick them up Justin and Russell scooted around him and exited the parking lot without looking back. A minute later they had disappeared into the neighboring trailer park.
Water Hazard
By Tim Baker
Preface
The motor home glided along Route 40 toward the Ocala National Forest effortlessly pushing the warm night air aside. In its wake it left a turbulent mixture of dead love bugs and diesel fumes.
From his perch in the driver’s seat, 76-year-old Herb Thomas watched the black carpet of Florida highway roll up to and pass beneath his wheels like the mat of a gigantic treadmill. The moonless night and unlit back country road prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet ahead. His headlights preceded him through the solid wall of night.
Theresa stretched her arms over her head and yawned from the passenger seat. Taking his eyes from the road briefly he looked over at his wife.
“Did you have a nice nap?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she offered. “How long was I out?”
“Only about a half hour,” he told her.
“Where are we?”
“Coming up to the St. John’s River, we’ve still got an hour and a half to go.”
The inside of the RV was quiet with the exception of oldies soundtrack coming from the satellite radio receiver. Herb gently guided the vehicle around a slight bend in the road. As he rounded the curve he spotted a set of headlights in his side view mirror. Either the vehicle had been riding very close to his rear end or it had come up quickly because he hadn’t seen a car in the last thirty minutes.
Up ahead he noticed the flashing red drawbridge light and saw the gate arm was down. Lifting his foot from the gas pedal he let the RV coast to a stop. The two halves of the draw bridge extended skyward like two skyscrapers tilted slightly towards one another.
The Searchers sang about “Love Potion Number Nine” as Herb waited for the bridge to lower.
In his peripheral vision Herb noticed the glow of headlights come to a rest behind him. A few seconds later as he watched a tugboat pull a barge along the river, he was startled by a quiet tep on his window.
A well-dressed man in his mid-thirties stood on the street holding a road map in his hand and used the universal sign for Herb to roll his window down. Herb did so and politely asked the man if he needed help.
“Yes sir,” the man said in a gentle southern drawl. “I seem to have gotten myself good and lost.”
The man held up the road map and stepped closer to the RV as Herb put the shifter in park and climbed down to offer assistance.
“Where’re you headed?” Herb asked stepping up for a look at the map, only to see that it was a map of Minnesota. Herb got an immediate sense that something was wrong but as he looked up he found himself looking into the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
His first thought was that this man didn’t look like the type to be carrying a gun. He was well dressed with neat black hair and handsome brown eyes. The only flaw in his face was the familiar scar of cleft palette surgery on his upper lip.
“Just get on back in the motor home sir,” he told Herb in a polite tone that was totally contradictory to the gun in his hand.
Herb stumbled up the step into the vehicle as Theresa sang the final fade out chorus with The Searchers. The man nudged Herb with the gun and told him to climb over the seat and sit on the floor next to his wife. Then he leaned back and signaled to the vehicle behind them. Herb heard a car door open and close. A second man trotted up behind the first. Herb could not see him due to his position on the floor.
“All right then, Donny,” the first man said, “it’s all up to you now.”
“You got it, Mitch,” Donny replied.
Theresa looked over in confusion.
“Herb, what’s going on?” she asked with a slight tremor of fear in her voice.
Herb raised a calming hand to her and said to Donny, “What is it you want from us?”
Donny climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled at Herb. The smile was one that contained not a shred of humor. It was the smile of a scorpion about to sting an unsuspecting beetle.
“Y’all just sit there and be quiet,” he told them.
Theresa gripped Herbs upper arm and began whimpering softly.
Donny settled himself into the seat and put the shift lever back into drive. Herb saw a .45 Colt pistol tucked into the waistband of his tattered blue jeans. Thick mud was caked on his battered work boots. There was a cigarette tucked behind his right ear, partially covered by his greasy brown hair. A tattoo of a spider perched in its web covered most of the right side of his neck.
After a few minutes the drawbridge lowered and the RV was moving west again. Several miles later on a dark and desolate stretch of road Donny eased the RV onto the grass shoulder.
“Awright folks, let’s go on back into the living room and get cozy, shall we?” Donny said in mock politeness as he withdrew the gun and pointed to the back of the RV.
Herb held Theresa by the hand and led her to the living area. Her hand trembled uncontrollably in his.
“Sit your asses down there on the floor,” Donny ordered.
Herb helped Theresa to the floor and sat beside her, his eyes glared at Donny. His mind went back to a time when he was a 20 year-old marine, full of piss and vinegar. That marine would have taken this redneck apart piece by piece. Now his body would not allow it. The voice of his platoon sergeant, a huge Texan named Roy Anderson, came back to him.
“We’re all gonna die, just make sure that when you’re time comes you die like a marine.”
Herb put his arm around his crying wife’s shoulders and told her it was ok. Then he looked at Donny and sat up as straight as he could, taking a deep breath.
“Get it over with you coward,” Herb said defiantly.
Confusion grew in Donny’s eyes as he looked at Herb. Herb could tell that Donny lacked the intelligence to know that he had just been insulted by a man who knew he was about to die. After a few seconds of unproductive consideration Donny shrugged, pointed the gun and fired two shots in quick succession.
He looked at the two bodies lying on the floor, the old man’s arm still around his wife’s shoulders, and shrugged again.
“I guess you really don’t know when to shut up, old man,” he muttered as he turned and left the RV.
Outside Mitch was standing by the rear of the vehicle waiting with a gas can and a rag. He handed the gas can to Donny and then he went to the gas filler spout and stuffed the rag into the opening. Donny spread gas around the perimeter of the RV and dumped the last of it on the rag hanging out of the gas tank fill spout. He heaved the gas can into the woods and walked back to the showroom-clean white pickup truck. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and handed it to Mitch, who lit it, took a long drag and flicked it at the RV as he blew out a long cloud of smoke.
The mammoth vehicle was instantly surrounded by a ring of fire. The two men climbed into the truck and backed away. Mitch turned the wheel and they headed east on Route 40. Donny turned in his seat to see the show and Mitch watched in the rear view mirror.
The explosion was tremendous. It shook the ground and filled the night sky with an orange glow as flames shot fifty feet into the air. Pieces of the RV flew off in silent trajectories through the night, creating a 100-foot wide debris field.
As the furor subsided the flames continued to devour the skeletal remains of the $300,000 Country Coach.
Donny picked up the pack of Marlboros from the dashboard and withdrew two. One he put behind his ear, the other he handed to Mitch.
The spotless white truck rolled silently away from the inferno and towards the black horizon.
1
Justin DiPrete pressed himself against the concrete block wall and tried to calm himself down. The wall radiated the heat that it had taken from the hot Florida sun during the day, warming his back while the crisp night air kept his face cool. The temperature differential gave him a slight nauseous feeling. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he tried to slow down his racing heart and stop his legs from shaking. To his right Russell peeked around the corner of the building, which wasn’t even a building yet. It was the bare bones of what would be a building someday. Right now it was only a two and a half story concrete block shell with no roof. The soft sandy ground around it was a dusty mine field of construction debris. Justin wished he was somewhere else, anywhere else.
Russell brought his head back from around the corner and turned to Justin.
“It’s cool, let’s go,” he whispered.
Without a sound Russell was gone. Justin took another deep breath and trotted after him. They made their way to a dumpster and crouched behind it. Russell crept to the corner and peered around.
“Be all clear, let’s do it,” he said softly as he stood and sprinted away.
Justin followed him and they reached the car together where they both sat with their backs against the flawless silver paint. It was a nice new Lexus and it had been parked there all day. Russell told Justin if the car was still there that night they were going back for a smash and grab.
Justin often tried to figure out why he let Russell talk him into these things. Russell didn’t seem to care if they got caught or not, as if he was wanted to ruin his future. Justin, on the other hand, was terrified of being caught and having a police record that could ruin his chances of going to college. Several times he had tried to say no, but Russell would always manage to persuade him into going along. Maybe it was a loyalty thing. Russell was the first friend Justin had made when he came to Florida three years ago and for all intents and purposes remained his only friend. When Russell started going through his delinquent phase Justin figured it wouldn’t last long. Now it was looking as though Russell enjoyed it too much and had no intention of stopping. Justin truly believed that his friend would get arrested before they graduated high school the following year. The dilemma that he faced was whether to follow him and throw his life away or go his own way and lose a friend.
Russell stood and looked into the car.
“Look like a nice stereo,” he whispered to Justin. “Lemme have your sweatshirt.”
Justin pulled his hooded Florida Marlins sweatshirt over his head and handed it to Russell. Russell found a piece of concrete block on the ground and wrapped the sweatshirt around it.
Justin looked at the dark outline of the trailer that acted as the construction office 20 feet away and prayed that there was nobody inside that would be alerted by a loud noise. Even though there were no lights on or other signs of life he still worried that someone was there.
There was a large sign standing in front of the trailer. Justin had seen it many times in the light of day and despite the darkness he could still make out the rendering of a golf course with a cluster of condominium buildings around it. So far 12 of the buildings had been started and they all sat in various stages of completion. According to the sign there would eventually be 51 buildings and a community center with a pool house. Not to mention tennis courts and a bicycle path. Huge green letters boasted that the “Stillwater Resort” would be “Another Golf Community by The Hall & White Development Corp.” As he was reading about the amenities that would be offered for bargain prices starting in the low 400’s his thoughts were interrupted by a loud pop followed by the sound of thousands of pieces of broken glass falling to the ground and into the car.
Both boys froze in place, neither of them so much as taking a breath. They waited for the sound of an alarm like sprinters poised for the starters gun. After three agonizingly long seconds they let out their breath and went about business.
Russell opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat where he used the concrete block to smash the dome light. Justin scooted over and squatted by the open door. Russell handed him a black vinyl case full of compact discs. Then he passed out a wrist watch and a wallet. As Justin put his sweatshirt back on and stuffed the pilfered items into the belly-pocket, Russell went to work on the stereo.
Russell struggled with the stereo while Justin waited impatiently, a visceral fear spreading through his body like wildfire. Something was wrong, he was sure of it.
“Almost,” Russell grunted.
Justin looked into the vehicle and realized that something wasn’t making sense. There was a faint wash of light spreading through the interior of the car. As he watched, the light grew until Russell’s face was bathed in bright light. His fear escalated to panic.
The sound of an engine came over the night air towards them. Two bright white orbs of light approached them on the road 100 feet away.
Frozen in terror, the two boys looked at the headlights and then at each other.
Finally Russell hissed “Shit, time to de-ass.”
With no further communication they sprang from their positions and bolted back the way they came. Russell was about two strides in front of Justin when they reached the dumpster. Without slowing down or looking back they ran until they reached a dried up retention pond. They followed the muddy edge where the water used to be until they reached a path that eventually brought them to A1A.
From the shoulder of the road they scanned the highway in the direction of the construction site entrance. Seeing nothing to indicate that they had been spotted, they darted across the road and ran through the parking lot of a burned out restaurant. They continued running until the parking lot ended and they were on the beach.
With adrenaline still coursing through their systems they ran for nearly half a mile. When they finally ran out of steam they walked up a set of wooden stairs and stood under a small gazebo looking for signs of pursuit. They were at the intersection of State Road 100 and A1A in Flagler Beach and all looked quiet. Across the street, on the roof of a restaurant called Donnegan’s, a band played and Justin could hear people having a good time. A large tattooed biker staggered down the stairs, leaving his friends behind to carry on the festivities. He called parting shots to them as he headed for his motorcycle at the back of the parking lot.
After waiting for two large tanker trucks to roll by Justin and Russell walked as calmly as they could across the street and fell in about three steps behind the biker. Passing under a street light Justin took out the wallet from the car and opened it. There was a decent amount of cash in it, which he pocketed and tossed the wallet aside.
“Yo,” someone yelled behind them. Both boys froze and looked at each other in terror. Justin felt sweat break out on his forehead almost immediately.
“Shit,” he thought to himself, “we’re fucked.”
“Yo, Bam-Bam,” the voice yelled again.
The biker turned around and looked at Justin.
“You call me?” he asked in a drunken slur.
“What? No, it wasn’t me,” Justin stammered.
The biker looked past them and they turned around to see another biker, just as large and just as tattooed as Bam-Bam, walking down the stairs.
“You might need these,” the second biker called, holding up a key ring.
Bam-Bam tapped at his pockets, finding no keys he said “Hey thanks Todd.”
Todd tossed the keys to Bam-Bam, who dropped them. As he bent to pick them up Justin and Russell scooted around him and exited the parking lot without looking back. A minute later they had disappeared into the neighboring trailer park.
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