No fun...

Johnny Rotten yelled in his ears.

“No fun!”

Over and over. The white ear buds were sticking out of his black hoodie. He swore the girl saw him looking at her – in complete disgust. But he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t really have time to think about it anyway. It would be the last time either of them saw each other, no matter what. The thought of that satisfied him in a way he hadn’t been in a while now. Surprisingly, he paused to bask in that feeling for just a moment. He’d promised himself no distractions. But this was too good to pass up. The warmth of the feeling washed over his entire body, almost like a sunrise on the beach in the winter.

But her voice ended the peace. Like an anvil falling on Wil E. Coyote. “Damn you,” he thought.

It was time.

He reached for the zipper on his hoodie. It stuck halfway down, like it always did. A slight pause to get the thread matched back up and whoosh, it came off. Both arms were now out, each holding a shotgun, sawed off hastily two nights before under the influence of half a bottle of Jameson and a few shots of tequila.

The only person who saw the guns before they started shooting was her. Her crooked grin that always was plastered on her face disappeared in an instant that stayed with him for the rest of his life, turning into a wide-agape mouth full of sheer terror.

“Blam!” Went the shotgun in his left hand. “Odd,” he thought, “I’m right-handed. Would have thought I would have pulled that trigger first.”

“Blam!” the second gun erupted a split second later.

The first shot had struck her in the arm, nearly taking it off from her shoulder. She looked at it, flapping there. The second shot hit the guy next to her. He was covered in blood before the buckshot hit him from her arm’s explosion. He didn’t have long to notice as his shot blew straight through his head.

Instant death. It’s what he always jokingly asked for, he thought to himself.

Clicking a new round into each gun’s chamber like he was in a John Woo movie, he spun around in time to see his boss ducking under a table, yelling “Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!” The next two shots were for her. Never liked that bitch.

Another round loaded, the last person left in the room was the custodian. He was an old Hispanic guy. Never said much to anyone. And did a horrible job cleaning anything. It baffled him why the old guy was still around. Some kid could be doing his job, for less money, and actually clean the dried up shit off of the toilet bowl. Except for the executive’s bathroom. It was cleaned daily. And the floors waxed every Saturday. It drove him nuts that this bathroom right next to his desk was always closed on Saturdays, forcing a long trek to the back bathrooms and their shit-covered seats.

“Don’t shoot me Jake,” the old man said.

“I ain’t shooting you, Alex,” he said back. “You’re already dead. I’d just be wasting my shots.”

“Mighty kind of you,” he said, ducking into that very bathroom. He heard the old man vomit. The only thing he’d ever seen the old guy eat was leftovers from corporate meetings, so there was no telling what was coming out with the stomach bile.

By now, the cops would be on the way. Johnny was still yelling in his ear about how little fun life was. “Boy was he ever right,” he said out loud.

Walking out the front door, a few people were outside, talking on cell phones.

“Calling the cops?” he asked them.

All froze in their tracks. He laughed manically. He felt good. For the first time in years. The pain in his back was gone. The cancer growing inside him, making his joints ache, his eyes yellow and his muscles atrophy was stopped for a minute. It too was admiring what he was doing, he thought to himself.

A man from the public relations department was pointing his phone oddly.

“Are you fucking filming me?” he screamed, almost channeling Mr. Rotten’s yarble.

“Um. Um. Um. No…” he said meekly.

The blast of the shotgun knocked him over. A direct hit to the chest. Still breathing, he whimpered “No…No…Please. Du…du…don’t do it…”

The second blast took off a leg. The third and fourth his arms.

Still alive, his eyes glazed over a bit. The phone was still in the ad executive’s severed hand.

Laughing, he picked it up, pushed stop on the camera and watched the video. It was from the beginning. This fucker had been watching the whole thing. Was probably going to sell it to ABC or Fox.

“Guess you won’t be getting rich, huh?” he said to the guy’s face.

The ad man spit out a gob of black blood.

“Pretty cool,” he said, walking away.

Before he knew it, he was in his car. Driving west. Always drive west a song had once told him. Or was it a friend? Anyway, if you aren’t driving west, you’re going back. You’re retreating. You’re giving up. So, always drive west.

He drove east to work every day. Well, he did until today. And west to go home. That allowed him to stay sane. For a while.

Now, he saw the sun, falling in front of him. A blood caked cell phone was on his dashboard. Johnny Rotten was yelling at him, too.

“This is not a love song…”

Becca, Chapter 1

Her plane arrives at 4:30 this afternoon. I’m not really sure how I feel about her flying 2,400 miles to come see me.

I met Rebecca at work. She was a cashier up in the front of the store. I never knew how old she was, but I always thought she was younger than me. Until I thought back on it many years later. That’s when it dawned on me that she probably was a year or two older than me.

That makes her 40 right now. Yet, I can only picture her as the young and quite beautiful girl that I knew for a couple of years.

The first girl who’s heart I broke.

We’ve been in touch only by writing letters since I moved from Virginia to Arizona. The best decision I ever made in my life, I guess, was getting in that old ‘84 Firebird and driving west. I wanted to be a journalist, I think. All that was for sure was the need to get out, to move, to breathe … and to grow up.

Those letters helped keep my sanity.

We never dated while we were friends at work. At least I never saw it that way. My thoughts were consumed by a girl who dumped me months before. A trend that I would repeat over and over, during the next 20 years, hence why it’s a trend.

This girl was different that any before. She didn’t go to college. She worked retail, and was darn happy to be doing it. And I liked that. Especially while I was working retail. Pulling in a huge $4.25 an hour with my degree in economics from one the best schools in the country. “A real shame,” I was told often during that period of my life.

However, it was good to go see a movie with someone. Have a home cooked meal made when my foot got severely sprained after playing basketball. Or even going up in a hot air balloon.

The thought of us being a “couple” never crossed my mind. We were just friends, hanging out and doing things that friends do. There was no kiss. Certainly no sex.

But that was what I was thinking about as I stood in Sky Harbor Airport. Did I want to try and have sex with her? Was this what this trip was about for me? Having sex with a girl who sent me photos of how flexible she was. A girl that I’d been playing truth or dare Madonna-style, in letter form for almost a year now.

I stared at the plane as it taxied into its final parking space. What do you call it? I guess parking space isn’t right, but I’ve never heard it called anything really.

It’s funny. You can’t do that anymore. Go right to the gate to meet someone. Fake terror spoiled all of that.

Anyways, after about 100 people, I finally see her. Her glasses a little too far down her nose as she struggled with her bag and a book. Her fashion choice of a sweater not exactly a good choice for early summer in Phoenix, but that’s ok.

“Man, she really is beautiful,” I think.

“Hey, Randy!” she exclaims and runs up to me.

“Hi! Great to see you.” is my answer.

We don’t hug.

We don’t kiss.

We just awkwardly look at each other smiling.

“You check any bags?” I ask stupidly. Back in the 1990s everyone checked bags. It was free and there was no limit on anything. Of course she checked bags.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “But I gotta peeeeeee.”

We scurry to a bathroom. She hands me her bag and her book. It’s a crossword puzzle book. One of the kind you get in a grocery store or a drug store. It’s very, um, colorful.

After getting her bags, we walk to my Firebird. It’s on it’s last legs by this time. Worn down tires, kind of begging to be changed, but it’s my first car and I didn’t do such things. I honestly hated getting the oil changed, but back then, it only cost 8.95 if you had a coupon, so…

We drive to my house. I live with an eclectic bunch. First there’s Kermit. He used to work for the government dismantling bombs. Was a dropout from Stanford. One day, one of those bombs blew up and left him with bad eyesight and shrapnel in his foot. Now? He works for MasterCard and smokes a lot of pot.

In another room is Ying-Chi. She doesn’t hang about much. Usually goes to her boyfriend’s pad. He sells pot. Lots of it. I’ve never seen so much GD pot in my life. Bags of it. Bags of bricks of it. Everywhere.

In the final room is Matthew. He’s a Mormon. Smokes a lot of weed too. So, I guess he’s got issues with John Smith.

None of them are home when I get there. Probably a good thing. The place does reek of resin, however.

“Do you smoke now?” Rebecca asks. “It smells like an ashtray here.”

“Nah, I don’t smoke,” I reply, thinking “And it’s really more of a bong water smell.”

We go to my room. I have a mattress on the ground, my stereo and a gaggle of 100s of dubbed VHS tapes. One of my roomies has a cable descrambler, so I’ve spent most of my weekends watching them smoke dope, drinking gin and dubbing movies. Movies that I would carry around for 15 years before finally getting rid of…

I have a problem with baggage.