The Short Stories Of Mila Strictzer (5) "Yea, I guess not. I’ll get my mom to buy a lot of juice." "Okay." So the boys walked to the town, taking in everything around them. They ate lunch and then walked back to the house. That afternoon they played Frisbee for a while as they listened to a Bruce Springstein album from Tom’s stereo, which he turned up loud from the house. And Mike fasted and drank nothing but juice for four days and he got very hungry but he was still able to resist because his mind was set on his goal. On the fourth night, Mike woke up and walked down the beach. The stars were out in the nighttime sky as he stood and watched the waves crash on the sand in front of him. Father down on the right, the beach curved in a long half-circle and there were some high cliffs way at the end. Mike thought about going over to the cliffs but he didn’t. Instead, he walked into the water until it was up to his neck with his clothes still on. Then, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his lower back and he couldn’t move. He grunted and said out to the dark night, "Tom!" But Tom didn’t answer because he couldn’t hear him. So Mike tried to concentrate on watching the stars and not moving. And as he watched one star, he saw it flicker and fade in and out as he fought his pain. He remembered what his mother would tell him to do when he was in pain, think of palm trees in Florida. So he did that and then he felt a little better, not because of the thought of the palm trees but because of the thought of his mother. Mike suddenly realized with horror that the water was rising because the tide was coming in and he saw it might drown him if he could not move. Then, he heard someone running down the steps but he could not turn around. "Mike!" Tom yelled from somewhere behind him. "Tom! I’m stuck! I can’t move because I have this pain in my back and the water is rising!" Tom stopped at the edge of the water and started laughing. He laughed so hard he had to bend over and put his hands on his knees. "Stop laughing! Your making me laugh, too, and it hurts my back even more when I laugh!" But Tom could not stop laughing and he had to sit down on the sand to try and stop. "Tom, the water is rising!" "Alright, alright," Tom said and slowly stopped laughing. "Mike, your just going to have to come in, even if it hurts." "Tom, you don’t understand, it hurts so bad I can’t move." "So are you going to drown?" "Can’t you come carry me?" Tom thought that would be stupid but he saw there might not be any other way. And, as he thought about it, he realized he would just about do anything for Mike, because he was his friend. So Tom went into the water and waded around in front of Mike. When he got next to him he started laughing again, the only thing showing above the dark water the two boy’s heads, one laughing and one not moving. Then Tom said, "Mike, I can’t help but laugh. Why did you get the pain?" "Maybe from fasting." "That makes sense. Alright, just stay still and I’ll lift you up and move you back to the sand," Tom said and then he put his arms around Mike’s waist and carried him back to the beach. As he slowly carried Mike through the water, the muscles in Mike’s back started to loosen and he felt better. Mike’s pain gradually faded but by the time they were back on the beach both boys were tired so they laid down on their backs in the sand and looked up at the stars. "Thanks, Tom." "Sure, Mike." "I can move again now." "Good." So the boys spent another couple of hours just looking up at the stars and feeling the warm breeze blow over them, coming in from Lake Michigan. Their clothes were wet but it wasn’t cold and they didn’t care anyway. The only words they said were when one of them would see a shooting star. Otherwise, they just looked up at the stars and thought about different things. Finally, Mike said, "I think I’m going to quit my fast now." "Well, you went four days. Not quite Ghandi." "Yea, but damn close." "Yea, damn close." He moved deliberately and with purpose but nobody could really notice. The day was bright and sunny; it was a good day, he tried to tell himself. Just why he was walking down the street, making damn sure he did not bump into anyone, he could not say. Then, he saw a vendor on the corner and his blood pressure probably dropped fifteen points. That guy would have an idea. "Yea, how you doing? I want a dog, gimmi lots of relish. I relish the relish," he said and laughed a short, checked laugh that was not very loud. He looked at the man, a short Indian man with a well-kempt, thin moustache and balding head. The vendor looked back at him for a second as he was preparing the hot dog and briefly made eye contact. "Yes, sir, a lot of relish," he said with a heavy accent and continued to work on the hot dog. He finished and carefully handed the hot dog, placed inside a white holder with a wavy edge, wrapped in two napkins, in the man’s hand. The last one, he had to slam his head into the edge of the bathtub, he had fought so fucking much. That fucker actually thought he was going to live, to make it. So he had kicked him hard in the balls and when he bent over, he grabbed a fist full of hair and slammed his head on the linoleum edge of the bathtub so it started to bleed but he had been so damn angry that he slammed his head a second time. Normally, he did not get angry but that fucker had made him angry. He was not quite out but damn close so that he made those stupid "ooohh" noises they always make. The groans, they were always so pathetic but every time he heard them, he liked it. Then, he put his gun into the nape of the guy’s neck and put his arm over his eyes as a safety precaution and said, "Hey fucker, why don’t you say some last words so I can remember them!" And the bastard had said something, too, that he could never forget. "My words are my own…" The gun went off and the blood instantly went everywhere. What the fuck had that meant? He could not get it out of his mind. "Lots of relish, good," he said to the Indian man and then he stood by the vendor and ate his hot dog. The people walked by, busily going to their destinations. He watched them for a while, thinking he was okay with them moving along. But then he quickly realized he was not okay with it. He was not okay with it at all. Some of them moved dangerously close to him, even brushing his shoulder occasionally. If one of them made him spill his hot dog… That cock-sucker from Queens, God how he had begged for his life. That one he would never forget, long as he lived-swear to God. It was the begging that had gotten under his skin. It was so pitiful. They all begged a little but usually it was in a trance like shock. But this guy had been worse. Oh, please, please don’t kill me, I have a beautiful family and my kids are so beautiful-my daughter has a swimming scholarship, can’t you understand? I love her so much. I have always loved her ever since she was a little girl. I just want to go to her wedding this summer. I only want to go to her wedding. He cried for a little bit but he had kept on. Please, don’t kill me, please, your not a monster, I know, please, please, please. And on and on that fucker had kept on. Jesus fucking Christ, shut the fuck up but he did not even say anything because it was so damn pitiful that he had wanted to keep listening. My dad was in the war, I know what it is like, the killing. Please, it is just so sad, just don’t do it, please, please, no. What is my wife going to do? I don’t want to die, I am not ready to die yet…and then he started to cry again for real and that would get nowhere with him. Since the guy was sitting in a chair, he kneecapped him because he wanted to hear him cry and beg some more. "Aaahhh!" Some people, when they’re hurt they don’t scream too much. But some scream as loud as they can like this one had. He kept screaming and saying please so he shoved his gun up under the soft flesh of his chin and looked as deep into his eyes as he could and then squeezed the trigger. This time, he did not even care if he got bloody or if a bone fragment went in his eye, he just wanted to watch his eyes as he died. And he had seen his eyes, too, and that last flicker of life leave them. "Hey, buddy, what’s wrong with you?" He blinked and looked over to his right, at whoever was talking to him. A man with a briefcase and suit was trying to get by him. He looked into his eyes, squinting to try and show that he was ready for anything. The man in the suit just looked back and then said, "Okay, well, excuse me. I am trying to get to the subway and your kind of holding up traffic. Can’t you see everyone else lined up behind me and that looong line?" Now, this fucker could die. But what could he do? He felt like this guy had somehow gotten the upper hand on him and he did not like that at all. So he stepped back toward the hot dog vendor, clutching his half-eaten hot dog, away from the entrance to the subway and in his mind the move he made was like he was saying he had lost and this guy had won. He had just become this guy’s bitch. He was speechless and that made him mad. "Well, alright, thanks so much. Have a nice day, Mr. blockin-the-way." Oh, shit, this guy could really die right now but instead, all he did was run down the subway steps, pop a token in the slot and continue on down to his train carrying his briefcase in his right hand. In a second he was gone, disappearing into the crowd. He had a job tonight and a thought flashed in his head that he might not make it. The thought scared him. It was family, too, that he had to do away with. This was not just some score, no, this was a serious job and he would be paid well. It was not his family but, you know, family. Those were the worst and he always tried to end them as abruptly as he could. No games. But like a dumb ass, he had decided to go for a stupid walk. There was a bar not too far away, he had been there before a couple of times when he met with some of his clients on Wall Street. Maybe, if he could make it there and get a couple of beers he could get his head back on straight so he could keep his job tonight like a professional. Settle in the back and talk a little shit, just a little bit, not so much to give anything away but so that he could get his head fixed on right again. Maybe drop a couple hints at the bartender so he would know not to fuck with him, so that he would know he was for real and get a nice cooked meal. Then, he would be okay again. He walked across Broadway over to the bar. There was white horse on the sign over the door. It was more of a pub, really. He remembered it as a low-key place and dark the couple of times he had been there before. So he went inside and it was dark, but as soon as he put his foot in the door he saw the place was packed with people eating lunch. They were all dressed in their suits, ties and nice dress skirts. He noticed there was no smoke in the room and it was very loud from all of the conversations. Some sweat quickly built up on his lower back as he nervously looked around for the bar. He saw it and went over and sat down on a stool with his back to the crowd. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand and then started rubbing his temples with his index and middle fingers. The bartender came over and looked at him like he was strange. "Yes?" "How you doing, buddy?" "I’m alright, what do you want?" "Scotch and soda." "What kind of scotch?" "Fuck, asshole! I want a fucking scotch and soda!" He wanted to turn around and find just one person looking at him but he didn’t. Instead, he just stared down the bartender. The bartender took a small step back and looked at the man without saying a word for a second and then got the drink and put it on the bar and walked away. He rubbed his forehead with his whole palm for a moment and then took a big sip from his drink. He realized there was probably no one else in the bar drinking but him and he felt like everyone in the place was watching him. He put his half-drunken glass of scotch down on the bar and got up and left. Outside, made his way to the subway station. He walked down the steps, which turned a couple of times, and it was damp because it had rained heavily that morning. The power must have gone out, too, because some of the lights were flickering. As he walked downward, he heard a noise not too far off. It sounded like music, but bad music and he guessed it was one of the homeless playing for money. He stepped into an open area filled with people and stopped. He looked around and saw the sign for the 2 to Brooklyn over a dark tunnel. Then, he looked behind him and saw a man playing a trumpet. The man’s trumpet case was open and the red, felt lining was filled with pennies and other change as well as a few dollar bills from the high-priced givers who always gave a little more to see if it could make a difference. The man was playing very loud and it hurt his ears. He saw that the man seemed to be looking at him, too, and he had a smirk on his face. That could just be from trying to blow the horn, he told himself. He went over to the tunnel and entered it. No one else was walking down it except him. The tunnel had a slight, downward grade and as he tried to keep his footing, his foot got caught on the concrete a couple of times and he tripped but quickly caught himself. He had to get to that job tonight. For some reason, the tunnel seemed very dark all of a sudden. Maybe, even if he was wasted, he could still pull it off. He could probably catch him walking out from his house and just fucking waste him on his steps and leave the body in the grass. That would be clean-later there might be some heat for it, but fuck it, it was all he could do right now. Someone bumped him and he bounced his shoulder off the wall of the subway tunnel. "Jesus, fuckface, you just learn how to walk? Or maybe, you need me to teach you again?" A big man said as he walked by, after he had knocked him up against the wall. He felt a sudden rush of blood in his head and then he turned to face the guy who was walking away but all he could do was sway a little as he watched the blurry image fade. He put both his index fingers on his temples and rubbed them. And then he heard the big man say as he walked off, "Hey! Next time, start the drinking after seven in the morning, A hole!" And he remembered the last time some mother fucker had talked shit to him. He had him on his knees with his hands tied behind his back in the kitchen. He had beaten him up pretty bad, too, and cut off two of his fingers. Blood was all over the floor. His head was swaying around but for a second he looked up and said in kind of a low voice that gargled from the blood still in his throat, "Fuck you, mother fucker...I hope…you and your cock-sucking mother burn in fucking hell while she is sucking your dick for all eternity, you fuck!" He had been so surprised that he was speechless. How could he get away with telling him that? There was almost nothing he could do, how could he respond to that? The fucker had beaten him. So he shoved his knife into his mouth and twisted it to pry it open and then he put his gun as far down his throat as he could push it, so that his head was bent back and then he kind of hunched his shoulders a little before he yelled back at him, "Try and talk now, fucker!" And then he fired his gun and the dead body rocked for a little before it fell over on its side on the kitchen tile floor, lifeless and limp. Somehow, he got on the subway train and sat down in a seat. There was really no one else except for a couple people in the whole car. So he let himself slip a little. Maybe if he slipped for a while he could focus again afterwards. He put his head down on his chest and closed his eyes but he was not asleep. The sounds from the trains were sharp and clear in his ears. He mouth was not open but drool still came out from his lips and spilled on his nice shirt. He stirred and looked down a saw he was drooling on himself and then he realized just how pathetic he was. So he bent down and took his gun out of its holster in his sock and put the barrel into his mouth and squeezed the trigger. And somewhere, no one really gave a shit. She hadn’t even visited him in the hospital. She had said her job would not allow her to fly back and then later she said the real reason was from being too upset. And now she wanted things to be better between them. The tumors in his head had started to spread and it was only a matter of time before he would die. Trains. They rolled across the flat, Midwest landscape and he could see them like he was flying in a plane overhead. From above, they did not seem very long but looking out from his parent’s car window, the trains seemed to stretch on forever. He had driven with his parents across Texas that summer. It took three days to get through the state and his mother had complained a lot about the boring landscape. She would comb her long, black hair, pull the hair from the teeth of the comb, neatly ball it up and put it out a crack in the window. He watched her every time from the back seat, as the hairball would be sucked out the window in a split-second. Every now and then she would take the brush and smack his father with it on the shoulder. His father just drove their beat-up car on and stared out the window ahead of him in silence. She had arranged for them to stay with some of her friends in San Francisco. It was a nice apartment by the marina and the sailboats in the harbor could be seen from the living room windows. It was winter and the cold wind blew against the windows and made them shake. "I bought you a new hat today, Mark. It’s a Greek fisherman’s cap." He looked up at her and the only thing that prevented him from calling her a stupid bitch was a sudden, sharp pain from one of his tumors. He could feel each one of them close now. "I already have a hat." "You just have a baseball cap, not even a San Francisco team. This is a fisherman’s cap. Don’t you like it?"
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