They busted in with large guns blazing. There wasn’t anytime to think. It was reaction only.
“Blam!” one shot rang out. A groan. A scream. Then all hell broke loose.
Bullets started flying throughout the apartment. It used to be a warehouse, so it was just one big room. Glass shattered. Pillows exploded. It was chaos.
But it was also fun.
I pushed a new clip into my gun. Took aim and shot. Two more fell. By the shots, I figured there were three more out there. I was behind the big-ass kitchen table. Made out of some kind of stone that kept the bullets from reaching their target. My heart was beating fast. But not that fast. I took a moment to think about that. I wasn’t nervous, just on edge.
I saw her in the reflection of a pan hanging from the ceiling. She was crying. And bloody. I had to do something. Fast. Or she was going to die.
I sprung from my hiding place. No guns blazing like out of some John Woo movie. Instead, with a steady eye into the darkness. I knew one was in the right corner. I heard some whimpering, obviously he’d been hit somewhere low. Most likely the dick. He wasn’t going to do anything. The other two were together. Cursing the fact they fucked all this up. My goal was to get within 10 feet and just spray them. They didn’t let me.
Both of them jumped out, firing. Much like the Arquette in “Pulp Fiction” they missed everything. I simply shot four times -- two into each of them -- and they fell. Dead.
I went up to the whimpering guy. He was pale. Dying for sure. He was crying. He didn’t have a gun anymore. I looked at him. “Who sent you?” I asked. He didn’t answer. I shot him in the shoulder. “Who sent you?”
“Freedie,” he stuttered out. “Free, Free, Freedie, man. He sent us.”
“Figures,” I said, lowering the gun to his face. I didn’t shoot. I kicked. Out cold. He’ll be dead before he wakes up. Bled out via the hole where his dick used to be. My gun couldn’t have done that. One of his buddies did it.
I scurried over to her. She was shivering. I checked for any wounds. There weren’t any. I couldn’t figure out why she was covered in blood. Then I saw it. Her dog, Chevon, had no head. She must’ve been holding him. Yuck. Poor dog.
Scooping her into my arms, I went to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Since I’m in the middle of nowhere in the Louisiana swamps, no cops are going to come calling. If anyone heard the ruckus, they went the other way. But, this place is compromised. I’ve got to leave. Fast. These guys would have needed to call in. Tell Freedie I was dead. They weren’t making that call now. So, a new batch would be coming. Maybe even that fat bastard himself. The water was warm now, I took her clothes off. She just sort of looked at me. She was scared, for sure. And now the man she’d been with for two years just killed six guys. There’s no explaining that. But, she’s in preservation mode now. Shock. She won’t protest.
I put her in the shower. “Get clean, baby,” I say. She just stands there. Watching the dog’s blood and pieces of fur trickle down the drain. I hand her a bar of soap. “Now!” She starts to scrub.
I go to my room. Change my clothes. Throw some in a bag. The safe is in there. I open it. It’s never locked. I take a few stacks of bills. Road money.
A phone rings. It’s not mine. Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz. One of these idiots had his phone on. Amateurs.
I find it. One missed call. Freedie. He’ll call one more time. Then he’ll be on the way. The room smells of smoke and piss. I’m sure every one of these guys has soiled himself in death. Maybe even in life. I do have a reputation.
I look at the wall. I see a picture. It’s from 15 years ago. Me and my ex. Her red hair glistening in the sun. She left me 5 years ago today. That’s certainly not a coincidence.
She stumbles out of the bathroom. Still naked. God damn she’s beautiful. I instantly wish I’d never met her. She’s got Cajun in her, but her family moved out years ago. She came back to help clean up after the BP spill. Met me while bartending in a local dive. I think she fell in love the second night we went out. I never did. And it hurt me to think so. She deserved better than some guy still in love with the past. Still in love with a woman who left for a job. Left for herself. Left to be alone. Leaving me alone.
“Hey,” she said. It startled me a little. “You’re not taking her picture?”
I grabbed it off the wall. She frowned. I hoped she’d not hate me. But after this, there’s no chance.
“Put on some clothes, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”
“Who were these guys?”
“If I tell you, they’ll kill you.”
“Sounds like I’m fucked either way.”
Fucked. So magical the way she says that. I think that’s why I let her into my life. The way she said fucked. I still remember the first time I heard it. The Eagles’ “Desperado” was just ending on the jukebox. I said “fuck the Eagles, man.” And she said “consider yourself fucked,” and then played “Hotel California” with a smile. She bought me an Abita and gave me a smile. I gave her nothing in return. Yet she stuck around.
We got into my car, a beat up old 1991 Toyota Celica with a rusted moon roof. She always laughed at my car. I told her it was the best damn car in the world.
Thankfully, Freedie didn’t know of my love for Celica’s of the 1991 vintage. He and his boys wouldn’t think twice if we passed him by on the road in one. I stared the engine. It purred. I put on Lucero’s “That Much Further West” and pointed her directly in that direction.
The sun was coming up. It felt cold. I looked at her. She was going to sleep. Good. It’s going to be a long drive.
Showing posts with label toyota celica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toyota celica. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Saturday, December 18, 2010
spontaneity
Sitting around the house, decorating for Christmas, the David Lee Roth video for “Goin' Crazy” pops into my head.
“Ahhh…breath mint.”
This is the world I live in. I inhabit.
Not always such a horrible place, I guess. Insanity would pale in comparison sometimes. At others it would be an improvement. But most of the times it would just be another excuse for not trying. And that just can’t happen any more.
Being spontaneous. It can’t be forced. Hence spontaneity.
So I jumped up in my shorts and soccer socks and dashed outside. The old crowd is gathering at the bar across the street. The shag bar. Is there such a thing as a Shag Christmas, I start to wonder as I stand out in the frigid air. The wind is blowing in from the ocean, making it feel 10 degrees cooler than it actually is. A couple is making out by their car. They stop to stare at me -- the guy in shorts and soccer socks. I feel the top of my head, I have a ski cap on. The one I bought at Mardi Gras last year. Saints. It’s much warmer than the other ones I have. And bigger. Might be the fact I haven’t washed and dried it yet. I take it off my head, give it a whiff. It has a slight odor of stale beer. That makes me think of standing on a ladder during a parade. Holding up a couple of kids. Drew Brees glides toward us in his float. It stops in front of us. He tosses 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 footballs directly at us. My cousin-in-law drops all of them. After six or seven minutes, the floats moves on again. That’s a pretty good memory.
I try to think of other memories. Just random snapshots. It should help keep my warm. There was the time I went to the Grand Canyon with Rebecca. We got in my Firebird and just drove. No reservations. It was summer. We talked nervously. I had bought a box of condoms for the trip. Actually the first time I’d bought them in my life. Ha. In the drug store I bought a magazine and a box of Slim Jims with it. Can’t ever just go in and buy condoms. At least the first time. Dork. We went to the Grand Canyon. She took photos. I didn’t. I wish I had now. Even though I’ve been back there many times over. The first time with Josh, way back when. We get one of those cheesy, haven’t been renovated since the 1960s hotel rooms that Flagstaff is so full of. It was over 100 bucks, I remember that. We went and bought beer and wine coolers. I don’t think we drank any of them. We nervously talked some more. Then turned on the TV. And fell asleep.
Seeing Barton Fink with Sharon. Ha. It was a date. Go to the library, check out a laserdisc. I suggested it. She looked interested at first, then bored. Later on, I took her to see The Hudsucker Proxy. She said it was awful. Ha. I loved it. “You know…For kids!” Not everything about her was so perfect.
Wandering about on campus. Happy and carefree. I don’t even know why. But we stopped and took a photo in front of the music hall or whatever it was on campus where the music classes were. It’s one of only two or three photos I know of that exist of me and my real first girlfriend. We’re smiling and happy. I dig that photo.
Walking around the Goodwill in Petersburg, Virginia, I was bored. It was summer, I remember that much. As I browsed the shelves, I stumbled upon some Christmas stuff. “Odd,” I thought. But there it was. “Santy”, the old plastic Santa Claus that we had growing up. Well, it’s still there. And my mom still busts it out, most of the time, at least. I snapped it up. It cost 99 cents. Probably the best 99 cents I ever spent at a thrift store. Why? It still makes me smile, even during the worst times. And there have been quite a lot of “worst” times since I found it.
We were in a hotel room in New Jersey. Probably an hour or so outside of the city. She was jumping up and down on her bed. Yes, we had two. She was so cute. So awesome. I wondered if she meant it when she said she hated it when friends try to be more than friends. Finally, she tired out and plopped down on the bed. “Where are we going?” she asked. I smiled. In the office, I always dared her to be more spontaneous. That enjoying life required it. She scoffed at the idea. She liked things safe. Planned out. Orderly. I didn’t. Still don’t. Then, one day I said it, almost as a challenge. She accepted. Saying “I’ll do anything you want. Just one time. I’ll trust you.” I smiled and said, well, next week we’re both off on these days. Let’s take a road trip. “Where?” she said. “Not telling,” I replied. “No fair, I said I’d go,” she pouted. “But, you have to trust me,” I retorted. “OK.”
Now, I was kind of perplexed. I had a week to figure out something cool. And I figured it out really quickly as I scanned the agate page that night on deadline. Opening day. New York Mets. Al Leiter pitching. That night, after work, I went to eBay. I found some tickets. I bid and won. They were nose bleeders, but they were mine. Got them shipped next day Fed Express. They came. A few days later, we were in my Celica, going North.
“Ok,” I finally relented in the hotel room. “So you don’t think I’m just a weirdo, we’re going to see the Mets. Al’s pitching.” She freaked out. Jumping even faster than before. It was magical. It seemed right. We didn’t start dating for another four months. After trips to North Carolina, South Carolina, Atlantic City and Colorado. I wonder, too often for my own health, if she at least kept that piece of what I showed her. That spontaneity is a good thing. I need to go somewhere. Soon. I think Little Rock, Arkansas, is where. It’s driveable. Only need five days total. That’s two days off. Two sick days and a holiday.
Ha. Of course, then it’s not spontaneous anymore. Or is it?
“Ahhh…breath mint.”
This is the world I live in. I inhabit.
Not always such a horrible place, I guess. Insanity would pale in comparison sometimes. At others it would be an improvement. But most of the times it would just be another excuse for not trying. And that just can’t happen any more.
Being spontaneous. It can’t be forced. Hence spontaneity.
So I jumped up in my shorts and soccer socks and dashed outside. The old crowd is gathering at the bar across the street. The shag bar. Is there such a thing as a Shag Christmas, I start to wonder as I stand out in the frigid air. The wind is blowing in from the ocean, making it feel 10 degrees cooler than it actually is. A couple is making out by their car. They stop to stare at me -- the guy in shorts and soccer socks. I feel the top of my head, I have a ski cap on. The one I bought at Mardi Gras last year. Saints. It’s much warmer than the other ones I have. And bigger. Might be the fact I haven’t washed and dried it yet. I take it off my head, give it a whiff. It has a slight odor of stale beer. That makes me think of standing on a ladder during a parade. Holding up a couple of kids. Drew Brees glides toward us in his float. It stops in front of us. He tosses 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 footballs directly at us. My cousin-in-law drops all of them. After six or seven minutes, the floats moves on again. That’s a pretty good memory.
I try to think of other memories. Just random snapshots. It should help keep my warm. There was the time I went to the Grand Canyon with Rebecca. We got in my Firebird and just drove. No reservations. It was summer. We talked nervously. I had bought a box of condoms for the trip. Actually the first time I’d bought them in my life. Ha. In the drug store I bought a magazine and a box of Slim Jims with it. Can’t ever just go in and buy condoms. At least the first time. Dork. We went to the Grand Canyon. She took photos. I didn’t. I wish I had now. Even though I’ve been back there many times over. The first time with Josh, way back when. We get one of those cheesy, haven’t been renovated since the 1960s hotel rooms that Flagstaff is so full of. It was over 100 bucks, I remember that. We went and bought beer and wine coolers. I don’t think we drank any of them. We nervously talked some more. Then turned on the TV. And fell asleep.
Seeing Barton Fink with Sharon. Ha. It was a date. Go to the library, check out a laserdisc. I suggested it. She looked interested at first, then bored. Later on, I took her to see The Hudsucker Proxy. She said it was awful. Ha. I loved it. “You know…For kids!” Not everything about her was so perfect.
Wandering about on campus. Happy and carefree. I don’t even know why. But we stopped and took a photo in front of the music hall or whatever it was on campus where the music classes were. It’s one of only two or three photos I know of that exist of me and my real first girlfriend. We’re smiling and happy. I dig that photo.
Walking around the Goodwill in Petersburg, Virginia, I was bored. It was summer, I remember that much. As I browsed the shelves, I stumbled upon some Christmas stuff. “Odd,” I thought. But there it was. “Santy”, the old plastic Santa Claus that we had growing up. Well, it’s still there. And my mom still busts it out, most of the time, at least. I snapped it up. It cost 99 cents. Probably the best 99 cents I ever spent at a thrift store. Why? It still makes me smile, even during the worst times. And there have been quite a lot of “worst” times since I found it.
We were in a hotel room in New Jersey. Probably an hour or so outside of the city. She was jumping up and down on her bed. Yes, we had two. She was so cute. So awesome. I wondered if she meant it when she said she hated it when friends try to be more than friends. Finally, she tired out and plopped down on the bed. “Where are we going?” she asked. I smiled. In the office, I always dared her to be more spontaneous. That enjoying life required it. She scoffed at the idea. She liked things safe. Planned out. Orderly. I didn’t. Still don’t. Then, one day I said it, almost as a challenge. She accepted. Saying “I’ll do anything you want. Just one time. I’ll trust you.” I smiled and said, well, next week we’re both off on these days. Let’s take a road trip. “Where?” she said. “Not telling,” I replied. “No fair, I said I’d go,” she pouted. “But, you have to trust me,” I retorted. “OK.”
Now, I was kind of perplexed. I had a week to figure out something cool. And I figured it out really quickly as I scanned the agate page that night on deadline. Opening day. New York Mets. Al Leiter pitching. That night, after work, I went to eBay. I found some tickets. I bid and won. They were nose bleeders, but they were mine. Got them shipped next day Fed Express. They came. A few days later, we were in my Celica, going North.
“Ok,” I finally relented in the hotel room. “So you don’t think I’m just a weirdo, we’re going to see the Mets. Al’s pitching.” She freaked out. Jumping even faster than before. It was magical. It seemed right. We didn’t start dating for another four months. After trips to North Carolina, South Carolina, Atlantic City and Colorado. I wonder, too often for my own health, if she at least kept that piece of what I showed her. That spontaneity is a good thing. I need to go somewhere. Soon. I think Little Rock, Arkansas, is where. It’s driveable. Only need five days total. That’s two days off. Two sick days and a holiday.
Ha. Of course, then it’s not spontaneous anymore. Or is it?
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Alligator Jones meets Trees
“Hi! Would you like to know about becoming carbon neutral?”
“Blam!”
That may not have been the smartest way to avoid the little eco-friendly nerd, shooting off his face with a shotgun. But then again, maybe it was…
Looking down at my feet, a pool of blood was already soaking my brand new pair of Samba Classics. It’s the only shoe I wear, and pretty much the only one I want to wear. Although some vintage Ralph Sampson Puma black hi-tops would be rather stylin’.
“Shit, man. Why’d you go and do that?” a voice said from the left side. Near a booth marked “Free Vagina Maps.” Clearly, this sign had been tampered with, but it got my attention now.
“You sell Vagina maps?” I asked the person who had just spoken to me, without answering his question.
“Huh?” he said.
“Well, I guess since I didn’t answer your question, you don’t want to answer mine. Fair enough.”
Shhhh-click. I chambered another shell from the tube. This seemed to rattle my new-found friend. He was about 25 or so, wearing a “I <3 Lohan” T-shirt. For some reason, this did not strike me as creepy at all. Maybe it was the idea of a Vagina Map that made this possible.
“Sorry, bro,” Ted said. I found out his name was Ted, or at least that’s what he was telling the average consumer with his neon green plastic nametag attached just over where Lindsay’s left nipple would be. “I don’t have any more maps, and yes, they are Vagina Maps.”
“Well, you’ve interested me, Ted? Is that right?”
“What?”
“Is your name Ted?, Ted.” I said, matter-of-factly, not even keeping my finger on the trigger as I put the shotgun -- a Remington 887 -- over my right shoulder. My gun was plain brown. The guy at the gun show in Vanceboro, North Carolina, tried to get me to purchase a camouflage one. I told him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, he didn’t take offense and offered me a discount on shells. Nice fellow he was. He had better teeth than me as well. But, honestly, that’s not saying much, having not been in a dentists chair since I was 23 years old.
“No man, my name is Trees.”
“You serious? Like the Steve Buscemi movie?”
“Yep. My mom fucked Steve one night and fell in love. But she didn’t stick around.”
“You his kid?”
“Nah. This was over a decade before I was born. But when she saw that damn movie, she said she knew she’d name her first-born Trees. Fucking boy or girl.”
“Guess you’re lucky you’re a boy, huh? Trees would be a helluva name for a lady to live down.”
“Hmmm. Never thought of it that way, but you’re right!”
“About them maps. What the fuck is a Vagina Map, anyway? I’ve just got to know.”
“It’s a map of where they film pornos. New ones. Classic ones. Gang bangs and trannys as well. You want to know where any famous porno was shot, I’ve got a map to take you there.”
“Damn, that’s fucking fantastic! When are you going to get some more in?”
“You serious man? ‘Cause don’t you think this is the last place you’d want to be again? I mean, you’ve got brains on your shoes.”
“Fuck, I hate it when that happens. You know what I mean?”
“Not really, man. Not really.”
“Well, Trees, you wanna get out of the Vagina Map business? It can’t be that lucrative? I’ve got a proposition for ya. One that you can’t lose on.”
“Sure, man. Hey, what’s you name?”
“Alligator Jones, my friend. Alligator Jones.”
He squinted through the sunlight to get a look at my face when I said that. I figure he didn’t believe me when I said that. Hell, my teacher’s never believed it either. Especially when they looked at the name in the book and it said Henry. Damn, I hated that name so much as a kid.
In the distance, sirens started to approach. In the foreground, a crowd was starting to gather. So were flies.
“Kid, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.
“Let me grab my bag,” Trees said, lunging behind his little makeshift stand of old-ass milk crates.
I only had a second to make my decision. Was he going for a gun? Or was he really grabbing a bag. I guessed.
Correctly.
“I never go anywhere without my bag,” Trees said. “It’s got a copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces”, the movie “Elf” and a Chuck E. Cheese token.
“Sounds great, kid, let’s get moving. The cops’ll be here any moment.”
We mainlined it straight to my car -- a 1991 Toyota Celica. Moon roof, not a convertible. Stick, not automatic. She wasn’t exactly the car you’d expect to pull up on the day you were going to die. And that’s how I liked it.
“Blam!”
That may not have been the smartest way to avoid the little eco-friendly nerd, shooting off his face with a shotgun. But then again, maybe it was…
Looking down at my feet, a pool of blood was already soaking my brand new pair of Samba Classics. It’s the only shoe I wear, and pretty much the only one I want to wear. Although some vintage Ralph Sampson Puma black hi-tops would be rather stylin’.
“Shit, man. Why’d you go and do that?” a voice said from the left side. Near a booth marked “Free Vagina Maps.” Clearly, this sign had been tampered with, but it got my attention now.
“You sell Vagina maps?” I asked the person who had just spoken to me, without answering his question.
“Huh?” he said.
“Well, I guess since I didn’t answer your question, you don’t want to answer mine. Fair enough.”
Shhhh-click. I chambered another shell from the tube. This seemed to rattle my new-found friend. He was about 25 or so, wearing a “I <3 Lohan” T-shirt. For some reason, this did not strike me as creepy at all. Maybe it was the idea of a Vagina Map that made this possible.
“Sorry, bro,” Ted said. I found out his name was Ted, or at least that’s what he was telling the average consumer with his neon green plastic nametag attached just over where Lindsay’s left nipple would be. “I don’t have any more maps, and yes, they are Vagina Maps.”
“Well, you’ve interested me, Ted? Is that right?”
“What?”
“Is your name Ted?, Ted.” I said, matter-of-factly, not even keeping my finger on the trigger as I put the shotgun -- a Remington 887 -- over my right shoulder. My gun was plain brown. The guy at the gun show in Vanceboro, North Carolina, tried to get me to purchase a camouflage one. I told him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, he didn’t take offense and offered me a discount on shells. Nice fellow he was. He had better teeth than me as well. But, honestly, that’s not saying much, having not been in a dentists chair since I was 23 years old.
“No man, my name is Trees.”
“You serious? Like the Steve Buscemi movie?”
“Yep. My mom fucked Steve one night and fell in love. But she didn’t stick around.”
“You his kid?”
“Nah. This was over a decade before I was born. But when she saw that damn movie, she said she knew she’d name her first-born Trees. Fucking boy or girl.”
“Guess you’re lucky you’re a boy, huh? Trees would be a helluva name for a lady to live down.”
“Hmmm. Never thought of it that way, but you’re right!”
“About them maps. What the fuck is a Vagina Map, anyway? I’ve just got to know.”
“It’s a map of where they film pornos. New ones. Classic ones. Gang bangs and trannys as well. You want to know where any famous porno was shot, I’ve got a map to take you there.”
“Damn, that’s fucking fantastic! When are you going to get some more in?”
“You serious man? ‘Cause don’t you think this is the last place you’d want to be again? I mean, you’ve got brains on your shoes.”
“Fuck, I hate it when that happens. You know what I mean?”
“Not really, man. Not really.”
“Well, Trees, you wanna get out of the Vagina Map business? It can’t be that lucrative? I’ve got a proposition for ya. One that you can’t lose on.”
“Sure, man. Hey, what’s you name?”
“Alligator Jones, my friend. Alligator Jones.”
He squinted through the sunlight to get a look at my face when I said that. I figure he didn’t believe me when I said that. Hell, my teacher’s never believed it either. Especially when they looked at the name in the book and it said Henry. Damn, I hated that name so much as a kid.
In the distance, sirens started to approach. In the foreground, a crowd was starting to gather. So were flies.
“Kid, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.
“Let me grab my bag,” Trees said, lunging behind his little makeshift stand of old-ass milk crates.
I only had a second to make my decision. Was he going for a gun? Or was he really grabbing a bag. I guessed.
Correctly.
“I never go anywhere without my bag,” Trees said. “It’s got a copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces”, the movie “Elf” and a Chuck E. Cheese token.
“Sounds great, kid, let’s get moving. The cops’ll be here any moment.”
We mainlined it straight to my car -- a 1991 Toyota Celica. Moon roof, not a convertible. Stick, not automatic. She wasn’t exactly the car you’d expect to pull up on the day you were going to die. And that’s how I liked it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)