Congratulations! You’ve EASed. Welcome back to the real world!
Here are some things you need to know:
1. Go back if you can.
Majority of service members realize how shitty it is out here and decide to go back. You’ll catch some shit from your ‘peers’ for chickening out of the great challenge that is the civilian world, and your butt-buddy, Lance Corporal Schmuckatelli, who got busted down for numerous stupid shit, will point and laugh at you for coming back in XX days, but it’s worth it.
If you are up to the challenge…:
1. Get set up with your local VA.
You’re a goddamn retard if you haven’t, and a kind soul needs to grab your dumb ass by the throat, strap you down in their car, drive you to the VA, and set you up with a case worker who will help you get your shit together in civilized society.
2. Accept that you’re not in the military anymore.
The way you talk, walk, and your latest fashionable regulation hair-cut makes you stand out like a green dick in a box full of pink dicks… you freak. Not telling you to change yourself, the point of accepting you’re a civilian is to lower your expectations and standards for other people, especially work-ethics. There’s a reason why everyone seems dumb and slow out here, their life doesn’t depend on it, and now, neither does yours.
Then again, I’ve occasionally met people that were squared away beyond what I would be capable of — without having military experience. So keep an open mind about people.
What comes next?
So, you’re all set up? Got a job? Got an apartment? Maybe you went back to your hometown and got back together with your ex, or a high school sweet heart and plan on making little babies? If you are the adventurous sort, maybe you went to a place you’ve never been before. Maybe you decided to drift for a while. Regardless, unless you got some stellar family members that really know what they need to do to support you, you’re going to face some hardcore emotional problems. Hence the point of this informative literature. Emotional Fitness.
What is Emotional Fitness?
Just like physical fitness is about controlling your body, emotional fitness is about controlling your feelings. Yeah, yeah, you’re a tough motherfucker and feelings are for women and children. Unless you’re a sister, then you don’t go in the ‘women’ category, so read on. I know some will think I sound misogynistic, chauvinistic, and other -tics. But I’m sure sisters will know what I mean. Still don’t like it? That’s tough, fuck you.
Why do I Need Emotional Fitness?
Because you’re all fucked up and you don’t even know it. You need to realize that you’ve just been let out into the wild, all by yourself, and it’s either adapt to survive, or go crazy and make the headlines on a local news paper as gossip.
You’re not in ‘the’ brotherhood anymore. When you fuck up, there isn’t going to be Lance Corporal Dick-Face making a joke out of the whole thing, then Corporal Smart-Ass will find you a suitable nickname to commemorate whatever you fucked up on. There isn’t going to be a Gunny Mo-tard coming down on your ass with the wrath of God and punch through your barracks wall like a fat superman to deliver a highly memorable, and unnecessarily descriptive ass-chewing of a life time. Then on a field-op, someone will bring it up again and you all have a laugh.
Out here, no one gives a fuck. Think that’s a good thing? Think again.
What are you going to do with all that anger, anguish, anxiety, guilt, shame, insecurity, and fear you’ve stacked up during your service, now that you’re all alone? No one tells you to “Stick a tampon in it or suck it the FUCK UP!” and no one has the right to. You don’t even see anyone sucking it up, because most people you see, put up an air of happiness and content. Even if they weren’t happy, they can’t relate to you, because the intensity of emotions you deal with are on a different level.
If you don’t feel these things, that’s good for you, stop reading. Oh, and go fuck yourself. To those who do, you’ve always felt these things, but it was manageable when you were with your brothers, I’d be surprised if you’ve even noticed it until some time into your civilian adjustment.
You can try to suppress these emotions, which I’m sure many of you’re already doing, sometimes because you don’t want to appear odd, but a man has limits. It’s going to blow up one day, usually in violence to self or another. Sometimes, it manifests as weird habits that lead to, sleeplessness, hyper-vigilance, and paranoia. I don’t care how bad ass you’re, your brain can’t handle hyper-stress without breaks. You’re going to fall apart. Your mental fitness will degrade, you become lazy, depressed, unable to do anything. Then goes your physical fitness, and you find yourself just waiting to die.
That’s why you need to learn to control these feelings, instead of bottling them up, thinking it’s another challenge you have to overcome. Yes, it is a challenge, but you need to work smarter, not harder.
What People Generally Think you should do:
1. See a therapist and a psychologist.
2. Get meds. SSI inhibitors or such shit.
3. Repeat steps 1 and 2.
Now grab these 3 steps and throw it into the trash can of your mental hard drive. Actually no, try it out. See how it works for you. You get it from the VA.
My experience with it wasn’t that good. Every session I went and every pill I took made me feel like a complete failure. For me, it created a cycle of self-hate, and I couldn’t bottle it up anymore. Anger and hate overflows to people around you, and it got to a point where I had malicious intents for the general public. Then it circles back again to suicidal urges.
What you Should do. Get Emotionally Fit:
1. Express yourself.
Take up a artistic hobby. Painting. Singing. Writing. Dancing. Fashion. Crafting… you know — art. Not manly you say? Get your head out of your ass, masculinity ain’t gonna save you. You need to express your feelings… (god that does sound unmanly) … Grab whatever that bothers you and express it in art, like you’re bleeding that shit out of your system, onto a blank canvas, onto a sheet of music, onto a word document, get it?
2. Communicate effectively and meaningfully in social interactions.
You need to be explicit, honest, and descriptive, when you talk to others. You need to read between the lines, listen, and read body language. Tell them what you think about them, take criticism yourself, and share your raw emotion about what’s happening…
Before you kick some fucker in the teeth in a mild confrontation, think: how can we understand each other better? If it doesn’t work out, oh well, you gave it a shot. I personally give you the green light to kick ‘em in the teeth.
3. Stop hiding who you are and open yourself up for judgment.
You want people that can relate to you? Understand you? Gotta take the risk to meet people like that. ‘Course some people will think you’re crazy, retarded, and lack common sense and decency. Fuck them, what can they ever do for you? Did they hike that godless mountain with you? Did they dig a fighting hole next to you? Did they skate with you on a working party? Nope. Worthless. I’m sure they are worth something to someone. But not your problem.
4. Accept who you are, what you are, and how you change.
The above 3 steps come down to this core idea. Emotional fitness is about accepting yourself. The above 3 are what helps me out. You can experiment, figure out what works for you.
There’s a way to check to see if your efforts are paying off. The proof is how you feel after some human interaction. If you feel good about yourself that’s a sign you’re on the right track. If you find yourself smiling to yourself after an interaction, you’re on the right track. It’s like marksmanship. Do the exact same thing as before, using reference points, then adjust as necessary.
Final Note:
If you are a loner and you withdraw all the time. That’s okay. You need time to get your shit locked on.
You’re a man, not a machine. I tried to be a machine and failed. In Iraq, I used to dehumanize myself and the enemy to be combat ready. I’m sure we all did to make ourselves numb to what we were trained to do. Real strength, a real killer, a real warrior, a real hardcore motherfucker does not make himself numb for the pain. He takes it, knowingly. Accepts all the pain, shame, guilt, at face value, it crushes him and his spirit.
But he carries on for the next fight.
So carry on.
Yes, I wonder about things like that. True nature of things. How things work. Unexplained mysteries of the universe, of being alive, and super nerdy cool stuff like that.
There are patterns, sequences, cause and effect. There is so many of them, sometimes obvious, sometimes insignificant, and sometimes they just appear to be chaos and mayhem. Connections that does not mean anything.
Okay, the real reason I wonder about such things is because I live a dreary life. Not that I am miserable. I simply lack the motivation to do anything, get anything, want anything.
It’s not laziness. It’s not procrastination. Everything is just meaningless and valueless. Calling it depression would be the easy way out.
Death would suit me well at this point, but since I am still alive, I do not want it to go to waste.
So lets get to the point.
My problem: How do I get myself to want something? How do I live?
What I figured out so far about living:
1. Meaning of life is just living.
2. Living is movement.
3. Movement begins by thought.
4.Thought/will comes from desire.
5. Desire comes from awareness.
6. Awareness comes from… unknown.
So, I have awareness, I think, I will, I have the ability to move, you get the point. I have a problem with core point number 5, desire.
Expanding on Desire:
1. Desire is strengthened by uncertainty.
2. Uncertainty comes from the ability to imagine the outcome, which should be reinforced.
3. There are two reinforcers in outcome predictions: positive and negative.
4. Positive is self-interest. Negative is fear. (Thank you, Napoleon)
5. Desire is strengthened by imagining what I could gain, and what I could avoid losing.
6. When both, positive and negative reinforcers are in place, it is that much stronger. Like the total value on a number line. -5 to 5 = 10
Solution to my problem:
A: Stop telling myself I can do or get something, if I put my mind to it. That’s not confidence. That’s delusional. I won’t know until I actually do or get.
B: Imagine all kinds of great things I could gain and all kinds of nasty things I could avoid by getting what I want. Even though they are ridiculous lies. Who cares if they are lies? What does it matter if I get disappointed? I can strengthen a new desire. The point is to live.
Prediction:
So I do this, I start moving, I gain momentum, I keep moving, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, happy ending, ride off into the sunset, and all that cool shit.
Hell, I might even live forever.
Thanks for reading. Well… I don’t really care… but I think that’s what people usually say to show that they are well mannered… or something. That they are considerate… courteous, cordial, whatever the fuck douche-bags do.
What I really feel like saying is, “Fuck you for reading. I’m not considerate and I know you don’t care nor understand. I wish you would care and understand, so I can return the favor, but we are all fucked in that regards eh?”
Actually… I think I’m pretty considerate. I would like to think I would save someone just because I can. But seriously, fuck you… Unless you need saving.
Wait, let me be more specific — Unless you need saving, within my capabilities.
END TRANSMISSION RANT
“I don’t get you.” Charlie glances at the gunslinger. The gunslinger was staring at the glove compartment of their truck. Acting as if he was done living. His face was lethargic and it drained Charlie of her life too. “We did a good thing. Don’t you feel good?” Charlie probed.
The gunslinger did not respond. He turned his attention from the vortex of gloom he saw on the glove box to the scenery outside.
They were driving down a single lane country road. Rows of cornstalks blurred by. Hugging the cornfields were dense pack of trees. Farmsteads, miles apart from each other, stuck out from the green haze of immature corn like landmarks.
“What am I suppose’ to feel good about?” The gunslinger muttered to himself. He scowled at the blurred cornstalks. “What’s it all for?”
Charlie groans. “You’re doing your thing again.”
The gunslinger’s attention snaps to her. He was clearly irritated. “Thing?”
“Your ‘no one loves me’ thing!” Charlie was clearly irritated. “It’s really getting old! Why don’t you just shoot yourself with your gun if you really feel that way?”
The gunslinger’s face shifts into a blank canvas. No trace of irritation, anger, nor any emotion could be gleaned from his face. His vision fixates on Charlie. She was sulking while she concentrated on the road. Her golden pony tail bobbed from side to side. Her hazel eyes refused to look in the gunslinger’s direction.
The gunslinger noticed the malice pouring out and spreading inside his chest in intense blasts. He wondered how Charlie morphed from a fragile and beautiful creature into a talking sack of shit with puke-green buttons for eyes.He felt himself detach. He does not appreciate the company of talking sack of shit. A talking sack of shit cannot talk to him like it knows him. Lest, he becomes a talking sack of shit too.
“You need to stop that — acting like you know me.” The gunslinger said. His voice carried a distinctive calmness. It was too calm. Sensing the sudden tension, unsure of what to do or say, Charlie kept driving.
“In fact, you need to stop the car.” The gunslinger advised in the same manner. The corner of his mouth slowly curved up to a smirk. His eyes were not as merry.
Charlie kept driving. Quietly. Still unsure of what to say or do. Rattling and clanking, the truck was the only thing making noise. The gunslinger took his gaze off Charlie and faced forward. His smirk had turned into a full smile, but his eyes gleamed dangerously.
Seconds pass. One… Two… “STOP THE CAR YOU FUCKING CUNT — BEFORE I STRANGLE YOU! STOP THE CAR! I’LL REACH UP YOUR FUCK-HOLE AND PULL YOUR INSIDES OUT! STO- !” The gunslinger explodes into Charlie’s ear, his hate and rage flooding out, his lips peeling back into a primal snarl.
The truck screeches to a halt, leaving a cloud of dust. Charlie has her shoulders crunched and eyes shut tight. Her small knuckles turn white from the grip she has on the steering wheel.
Without another word, the gunslinger opens the door on his side, still snarling at Charlie. Like a beast backing away from a threat, he slowly pulls his head back as he slides out the truck.
“The deal’s off.” The gunslinger states flatly. He shuts the door, turns away from the truck, and disappears into the labyrinth of cornstalks.
Hazel eyes turning moist with tears, Charlie gasps for breath. Her delicate fingers tremble and her heart is pounding. Her body feels as if it is coming apart from the sockets. As if whatever glue that was holding her body together was becoming weak. She was melting. She grasps herself, trying to hold her arms from dripping off her shoulders. She takes slow deep breaths as she places a hand on her chest to calm her spastic heart.
“It’s okay.” She tells herself, clearing her throat. It was not the first time she felt something like this. She remembered Brad. How he and his friends held her down. Smell of dirt and their hot breaths. How one of his friends Josh, punched her in the gut as she struggled and screamed. How she croaked and choked at the blow. It literally felt like her limbs were coming apart then. Being torn under rough hands. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” She kept telling herself, tears running down her cheeks while her lips contorted with emotion.
Charlie locks her jaw in anger. She decisively hurries out the truck and yells into the cornfield with every part of her fragile being. “Pull my what out?! Who says that?! You sensitive prick! Moody bastard! You bipolar psycho! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
Still fuming, Charlie leans against the truck with her arms crossed. All she wanted was to leave. To leave her trailer park. Her drunk dad. She just wanted to leave. Was that so much to ask?
The gunslinger was her unwitting champion. A guide to somewhere far away from everything she knew. She has never met someone so free and unbound. Perhaps too unbound. He was unpredictable, moody, and a pain in the ass. One moment, he would look at her like a child, all smiles like he completely trusted her. Then without warning, he would turn. How could he say something like that? So full of spite in a moments notice. What was she going to do now? Go back to her nightmare?
No. She did not need him anymore. She was out. She was free. She can forge her own path. She would be 18 years old within months. She can start over in any place she wants to. The gunslinger has outlived his usefulness. She can easily find another dope to fall for her lies if needed. Next time, someone more predictable, easier to control.
Convinced that all men are ass-holes, Charlie gets in the truck and drives away.
The gunslinger walks in a dizzying maze of green corn stalks. He hears Charlie’s cries, muffled by the cornfield. He stares at the dirt, walking aimlessly, going where his scuffed cowboy boots will take him.
“That fucking bitch really thinks I’m stupid!” The gunslinger snarled. Whether the hundred thousand dollars Charlie promised him was real or not, that was not important. Money held no real value to him. Money served as a simple proof. Proof of his success in gun-slinging. He knew Charlie was using him for her own agenda. That did not matter to him as long as Charlie fueled his fantasy of being a gunslinger. Now, without Charlie to feed his fantasy, to see him in the image of a gunslinger, he was lost.
What was he now? The same lonely loser, talking to the fridge in his apartment. Some things were different though. Now, he was a lonely loser with a gun, talking to corn in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.
He always knew it was a fantasy. That was why he would get moody. Knowing that he was not a real person. Gunslinger was an identity he made up for himself. It ate him up inside, and whatever eaten inside turned to putrid malice. Vile hatred on the verge of pouring out like a surging pool of corroding acid, deforming everything it touched, sizzling and hissing.
The gunslinger exits the cornfield to see a dense pack of trees. He enters the treeline, into the dark forest, still letting his boots take him wherever they were going.
Scattered rays of sunlight pierced the forest’s leafed sky-net. At nightfall, forests like these get dark. Dark enough to hide from God.
His gaze, still fixed to the ground, the gunslinger stops in the middle of the woods. He focused on the weight of his gun under his shoulder. He began to entertain the idea of shooting himself. Perhaps he should. He should end it all. Living in this fantasy, what is it all for? Why was he here?
For all his wealth of knowledge about the world, no matter how much clarity he gained from getting down to the truth using the Socratic Method, single theme of thought rang the truest.
I don’t know. I can’t know.
He did not know a goddamn thing about anything. The gunslinger, remembering Gary, accepted that he was a hypocrite. The wisdom he departed to Gary was him talking nonsense. Gary made sense out of them on his own. Gary heard what he wanted to hear. The gunslinger knew there was no real answer to anything. Nothing makes sense in the big picture. Anyone that says the universe means something, that it has a purpose, that it was a certain way, is either a liar or a liar who does not know that they are lying. A charlatan or a dumb-ass.
But who was he to decide what people knew? What did he know? Nothing. He does not even know what he is. He does not know what anyone is.
His frustration materializes into a pained howl. “Aghhhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhh! Agh-Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh –!”
Leave me alone!
The gunslinger screams among the uncaring trees. They just rustle in the breeze, indifferent to what a single lonely human being thinks he is feeling on their property. Perhaps a little amused that someone thinks whatever they feel is really worth making all that noise about.
“Wh-y do you scr-eam like that?!” A small voice also howled from behind the gunslinger.
It was a little boy, frowning and covering his ears, around the age of six. He had choppy brown hair, freckled face, and clear blue eyes. Wearing a sleeveless red flannel shirt and cargo shorts.
The gunslinger, caught off-guard, replies after a pause. “‘Cause… I’m all fucked up, kid.”
The boy pouts and frowns harder, his tiny hands still covering his ears. “That’s a bad word!” The boy points his finger at the gunslinger. “You’re a bad man!”
The gunslinger let out a haughty scoff, rolled his eyes, and began to walk away. He feels a handful of pebbles pelt him in the back. The boy was grabbing whatever was around him and was throwing it at the gunslinger.
“Bad man! Go away!” The boy yelled as he threw a twig at the gunslinger.
Then a handful of dirt flew into the gunslinger’s face. “Hey! Stop that!” The gunslinger scowled while raising his arm to shield his face. Then a stone hit him in the skull, making a rich cracking noise inside his head. “Okay, you little shit!” The gunslinger stomped towards the little boy, fully intent on grabbing the child like a battering ram by his shirt and shorts, and then toss him outside the tree line — into the cornfield.
“Ahhh! Bad word! Bad word!” The boy squatted into a fetal position and covered his ears again with his blue eyes squeezed tight as the gunslinger neared him. His freckled cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk’s.
Realizing how intimidating he must look to a small child, the gunslinger stopped in his tracks — a bit embarrassed. The gunslinger frowned as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, swung himself back around, and began walking deeper into the woods. He heard the boy’s feet patter against the earth, running away from the ‘bad man’.
In a few minutes, the gunslinger arrived at a pond. Frogs croaked their lazy chorus. Tiny bugs buzzed about in swarms. He distanced himself from the bugs and lay supine on the forest floor. The leaves shuddered now and then from the breeze. Sunlight blinked in and out as the leaves waved.
Maybe this was where he belonged. In the middle of uncaring nature. In here, no one was good. No one was evil. He always thought both were ass-holes. Saints and demons, they were both douche-bags.
There was no right. There was no wrong. No one to define anyone’s actions, using their shallow knowledge about the world. There was no success. There was no failure. No one was parading around like they had it good or had it the worst. In here, lying still in the dirt, the gunslinger could just be.
No one cared if he was or was not brave. No one cared if he was or was not strong. No one cared if he was or was not smart. He did not need to stand for anything or live up to any kind of ideals. He did not need to be anyone or do anything. Intoxicating, all-embracing, indifference. This was God’s realm. A heaven on Earth.
The gunslinger closes his eyes. He wished for unending sleep. Eternal bliss. Maybe if he laid completely still, the world would not notice him. He would not notice the world either. If he laid completely still, the world would just pass him by and let him quietly die here. He would pass by the world and let the world die too. The butterflies would feed on him, the frogs would shit on him, and flies would lay their eggs in him. Mushrooms would sprout out of his mouth, worms would make home in his intestines, crows would dine on his eyeballs. Embraced by all fair mother nature, he could just disappear.
Something plops down next to the gunslinger’s head. Feeling groggy, he opens his eyes and shifts his gaze to the side to see what it is without turning his head.
One slice of apple pie wrapped in plastic, and one freckled boy holding a stick in front of him like it is a sword.
“I’ll give you that pie. But you have to promise! No more bad words!” The boy demanded. His voice was slightly shaking. The gunslinger guessed that the boy must be from an exceptionally brave and benevolent stock.
The gunslinger notices the boys hips. It was thrust out. More ready to run than to fight in case the ‘bad man’ decided to attack. He looked back at the slice of pie and suddenly felt his stomach growl and mouth water. He was hungry.
“Fine.” The gunslinger sits up, rejecting heaven for a slice of apple pie to satiate his hunger. He grabs the pie, leans against a tree trunk, unwrap the plastic wrapping, and scarfs down the pie. He finishes the palm-sized pie in two bites.
The boy squats in front of the gunslinger. The boy watches with a smile as the gunslinger sucked the sticky sugar off his fingers.
The gunslinger burps and the boy giggles. “You’re like Mr. Happy. ‘Cept he’s got white hair and you got black hair. He likes it when I give him pie too,” the boy tattled on, drawing a dog in the dirt with his stick, “but daddy says it’s not good for him. But if it’s not good for him, why does he like it?”
The gunslinger yawned and stretched his arms out before settling back into his tree. “That’s a question for philosophers.”
“Phi… phisofers?” The boy looks up from his drawing, confused.
“People who find answers to hard questions,” the gunslinger replied, staring at the child’s drawing, “they could tell you why.”
“I don’t know. I just like seeing him happy!” The boy exclaimed, grinning, his clear blue eyes squeezing into a half-moon in glee. “That’s why he’s Mr. Happy!”
The gunslinger smirked. He was in Heaven, and God was speaking through this child.
“You have a pretty smile!” The boy said, still grinning ear to ear.
“You make it pretty.” The gunslinger responded, fully smiling, peering into the boys blue eyes.
The boy gives the gunslinger another confused look. Then, as if to remember something, he hops back on his feet. “I have to go! Mommy doesn’t like me playing in the woods.”
“Sure, kid. See you around.” The gunslinger said, yawning again.
“See you!” The boy runs away after waving his stick-sword good-bye to the gunslinger.
The gunslinger closed his eyes again. He wedged himself into the crevices of the tree trunk he was leaning on, and then reflected on the child’s wisdom. His volatile heart was put to rest and his mind was silent. Everything made sense just then. The world was perfect the way it was. Even in all its flaws, it has always been perfect. The flaws made it perfect. It always will be perfect.
Charlie is leaning against her beat-down truck with the hood open. She had only driven a short ways after parting with the gunslinger. Brilliance had struck her.
Charlie had grabbed a wrench that was lying around in the back of the truck. She had disconnected the battery cables and removed the negative connector knob with the wrench. After reconnecting the positive cable, she tossed the negative connector in the glove box.
She had laid her trap, and all she had to do now was wait. Play the damsel having car trouble. As she waited for a kind soul to stop and help, she put together her story. Making sure every word she would say made sense, she calculated all corners and all ends. She calculated the odds of having to say anything at all. She calculated what people around here would know about and made sure to avoid any statements that would compromise her web of lies. Contrary to what amateurs think, lies are best when it is based on something people are not familiar with.
It is always easier to tell the truth, but in this case, the truth of, “Hi, I’m a runaway, and I was travelling through with a gunslinger, who shot and killed my… friends that tried to rape me, and now he’s gone and I don’t know what to do. Could you please be my next chump?” was not going to help.
Her name was… Cheryl. She had a good image of the ‘Cheryl’ character she could play.
Using the real Cheryl as basis, she began to organize her profile. She was a college student. On a road trip. To find herself. Soul searching. To release herself from the dreary lectures because she felt she was wasting away.
She was from California and attended Berkeley. She practiced mixing a bit of ‘valley girl’ in her dialect. “Like… ok-ay.” The ‘ok-ay’ was good. It sounded better when she said it like she had the flu. She made sure not to over do it though. The new character had to overlap somewhat with her natural character.
Her best friend’s name was… Charlie, whom she knew very intimately.
She did not have a boyfriend. Which was true and would be important to the would be helper. She did have a ex-boyfriend who was a lot like the gunslinger. She made up little stories and memories she shared with her made up boyfriend, whose name was… Gary.
She makes up her professor’s names, complete with matching thesis subjects. She makes up her class schedules down to the very minutes she enjoys lunch at a cafe near her campus. She sees the cafe, she is there, she smells the faint aroma of coffee beans, and students with their Apple laptops. She majors in literature. But now wants to be a journalist and see the world.
Charlie created a new world, and gave herself a new identity. All the books she read, all the videos she watched on Youtube, everything she has seen and heard, it all came together to weave her intricate web.
Details are what mattered. Specific details. Every part of her new identity had to be painstakingly examined to fill the gaps. Of course she was not going to remember all the details. That is insane. But preparation leads to victory.
It was good to be prepared, but what really helps is to really be that person. Have a solid image of that person and really feel it inside you. Then the parts she cannot remember can be defended with, “Like… I can’t remember right now? But that’s not important.”.
She could also take the offensive, and make the other feel bad, or simply talk about something else by switching the subject back on them. People generally love to talk about themselves after all. One thing she had to make sure, was to stay flexible. Flexibility is attained with ambiguity. Double speak. Plausible deniability.
Her web was refined, organized, and ready to snag a prey. Her end-game being, having someone to protect and provide for her until they outlive their usefulness or something better comes along. Her immediate goal being, having someone to fulfill her physiological needs. Food and shelter. She was a predator. This was her weapon. This was how petite Charlie survived in the suck. Preparation upon preparation. Calculations within calculations. Predictions after predictions.
She remembers Brad and his friends. The smell of dirt is back in her nose. It made her nose itch. She wrinkles and wiggles her nose.
She learned a valuable lesson from Brad, the Ace of Ass-holes. When things get physical, events go haywire too fast for her to calculate. So the preparation had to be absolutely perfect! She needed to cover all angles and keep in mind of all possible ways the events could turn.
Charlie waits. As a magnificent queen spider patiently waits, alert to every tiny vibration on her elegant web, Charlie waits.
An hour pass. Only living organism to pass her by was a deer. Charlie raised a single eye brow as she spotted the deer. The deer seemed to do the same. It crosses the road, right next to her truck, carefully eyeing her out. Then trotted away as soon as it reached the other side.
Another hour pass. Charlie is squatting next to the truck. The summer sun is scorching her body. She feels like her brain is boiling. Strands of hair stuck to her sweaty brow, cheeks, and neck. This was not sexy at all. She was tired, hot, and hating life.
Charlie leans against the left front tire, taking advantage of what little shade there was, and buries her head in her arms. Staying optimistic, she recalculates. This was perfect. She appears the perfect damsel in distress. Someone will come by, check under the hood, offer to get a part for her at his home, and she will be invited for a glass of iced tea. It was a matter of time.
And another hour pass. Today must be “Fuck Charlie Day”, celebrated all across the world. People wear a giant dildo on their heads and chant, “Char-lie! Char-lie! Char-lie!” She chuckles at the vision in her head, face still buried in her arms.
“Do you need help there, miss?” A voice touched Charlie’s web!
Charlie’s eyes open wide in her arms. She invokes Cheryl into her being and look up. She intentionally droop her eye lids slightly to show fatigue. She faces the voice. A faded 2-door muscle car was slowly rolling towards her from the opposite lane.
The car, and the prey it carried, fully comes to a stop in front of her truck.
“Yes! I don’t know what’s wrong with my truck!” Charlie claimed, standing up, letting just enough sense of helpless resignation and new-found hope to enter her voice.
The driver is a handsome man in his late twenties. Medium length brown hair, playful light brown eyes, five-o-clock shadow, rugged jaw line. An all American stud. In the passenger seat was a younger man who seemed to be the driver’s brother. They shared the same features except the younger brother’s hair was a lot lighter and longer, and he had a slim jaw line with a goatee, that made him look ‘ratty’, compared to his older brother. The younger one, glumly stared straight ahead like Charlie was not there and they have not stopped.
“What happened?” The handsome man steps out of his car and heads towards the engine compartment. He gives Charlie a confident nod as he passes her. The man wore a suede biker vest. He looked like he could be a character in “Grease”. He did not smile, but he held her eyes in a flattering manner as he passed by.
“I don’t know… I looked but… I don’t know.” Charlie said, full of concern, making sure to be ambiguous. To allow room for possible contradictions in her set-up, she gives him the least amount of information as logically possible.
“The connector to your battery is missing…” The man said, after checking under the hood. A hint of suspicion was in his voice.
“A what? What’s missing?” Charlie feigned ignorance. Lying 101, never explain anything on your own. This particular man seemed to be sharp, but men tend to believe it is more likely that a woman would be dumb than smart. Even if they think the girl is smart, they are never smarter than them. Underestimation is their worst enemy. Poor saps.
“Wanna tell me how your truck died?” The man asked. He innocently held her shimmering hazel eyes with his playful brown eyes. His charming smile broadened, accentuating his strong jaw line.
This one was exceptionally sharp. Something did not make sense to him, and he did not underestimate Charlie.
“I don’t know! It just died! Can you fix it?” Charlie whimpered, almost in tears. She glides in to a position next to the man. She lets her arm brush him lightly as she leaned in and pretended to study the engine. She was sure he took a glimpse down her tight-fitting tank-top. Interactions Strategy 101, do not defend, attack.
The man seemed to think for a bit. Connecting the dots for Charlie. Charlie knew that whatever he was suspicious of was starting to make sense in his own head.
“I’m gonna need spare parts,” he faced her, grazing her comely legs with his as he leaned against the truck’s grill, “we live near by. Why don’t you come with us. Get yourself out the sun.”
Bingo!
“Um… I — I don’t know.” Charlie stammered, showing uncertainty. Seduction 101, the other side thinks they are in control.
He walks back to his car, folds his seat for Charlie to enter. “C’mon, I can fix it while you relax. I’m sure our dear ma’ will fix you up with a nice glass of ice tea too.”
Double Jack-Pot!
Charlie looks up to the man like a puppy, flashing a shy smile. “Ok-ay.” She agrees with the barest hint of valley girl accent.
“I’m Cheryl.” Charlie stops short of entering the car and introduces herself.
“Nice to meet you Cheryl. I’m Rick, and that’s my brother Sam.” Charlie waves to Sam, brushing her golden locks away from her face with the other hand and smiling brightly. Sam glances at her and lifts his hand up half-way in insipid acknowledgement.
“He’s a bit shy, my little brother.” Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome-Rick informs Charlie as she gets into the back seat.
Now comes the hard part in the hunt. Coaxing the prey to entangle itself in her web out of free will. She needs to observe their belongings to get a silhouette of who they are, what they like, what they don’t like. Then she will have to test her theories and make adjustments by judging their reactions to stimuli. Then she simply plays the puppet master, playing upon their interests and fears. Charlie had her methods down to a science. This was a war for her survival and Sun Tzu had nothing on her.
She suddenly missed the gunslinger a bit. With him, she could just be herself and not resort to all these secret squirrely, cloak and daggery. Sheer amount of calculations she had to do made her head throb. The gunslinger was keen on picking up attempts of manipulation and it would always backfire with unpredictable results. He was impulsive, which worked to Charlie’s advantage, but he was decisive as well, and everything had to be on his terms. A truly difficult combination for Charlie to handle, for anyone to handle in fact. He was a hot-tempered child! A wild dog! So it was just easier to let him be, and ask for things directly without a thought. Even then sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not. Sometimes he did things for her on his own, sometimes nothing would make him move. Stubborn bastard! A true pain in the ass!
Charlie decided it was for the better. You cannot trust people like the gunslinger. They are not dependable. They are too extreme. Unstable.
Now, Rick, here was a guy that was manageable. Clear, and simple in what he wanted. Just the right amount of subtlety to keep things interesting. Too bad he was pretty sharp for a male. Charlie liked her guys dumb and easy, but Rick was easy on the eyes, so she decided to overlook his flaw. Sam wouldn’t look too bad either if he shaved his silly goatee and got a haircut that did not resemble a washed out rock-star. Speaking of which, she needed to be mindful of Sam. She needed more data on him. He may be a better candidate than Rick as a pawn.
“So, where you from?” Rick asked, glancing over his shoulder as he drove. His voice was deep and rich like an opera singer.
“California. Ever been there?” Charlie answered in her naturally cheerful speech, keeping ‘question-time’ off her by redirecting the question.
“Nope. Born and raised here.” Rick answered.
“Well, we have beautiful beaches there. I used to go surfing with my best friend, Charlie, all the time! She was so pretty! One time, these Marines came up to her and–” Charlie told her story as prepared. She summoned all her knowledge of what was in California and weaved an intimate story for the brothers. She even referenced an episode of MTV’s Real World she had watched long time ago to create visual details. Who says those reality shows are useless?
The stories told nothing about her. It revolved around her friend, ‘Charlie’ and her exploits. How ‘Cheryl’ felt about ‘Charlie’ and the things she went through with her. Using real facts and twisting them into personal facts about California. A real Californian would have believed Charlie too. Manipulation 101, talk about yourself to disarm their guard, they become more willing to talk about themselves too.
The brothers listen to the story. Rick laughs once in a while at Charlie’s punch-lines and twists, he adds witty comments, he definitely knew how to be social. Charlie makes mental notes and logs about what he says, trying to gauge his intelligence and personality. So far, the divulged information was too shallow to be of any use.
They arrive at a remote farmhouse. A short ways from where they left the truck. A short ways from where Charlie parted with the gunslinger.
Now that the brothers had a sense of who she was through her stories, she can easily interrogate them under the cover of familiarity and trust she instilled in them. You’ve got to give first to get.
The sun was setting. Painting the landscape in surreal orange. It was perfect timing. They may even ask her to spend the night. Giving her more than enough time to seduce one of the brothers.
Rick, steps out of the car, and heads to the back to open the trunk.
“Is it true what they say about Cali-fornya girls?” Sam asked abruptly, smirking, almost leering. He had a somewhat guttural and nasal voice. Not very pleasing to the ears. He had been quiet all this time, but the way he just said what he said, it was not shy at all.
Charlie’s web, its whole foundation, trembled intensely in alarm. Something was not right!
“…No. What do they say about California girls?” Charlie inquired, forcing a cheerful, unassuming smile on her face.
“That you can suck a golf-ball through a hose!” Sam snickered. Charlie’s gut, spiked in fear. It told her to get out and run as fast as possible. Her gut despaired that the car was a 2-door and she would have to struggle to get out. Her head, however, told her to have hope. That it was a fluke. Sam was just a harmless, anti-social ass-hole. Rick was still a charming specimen to be a candidate.
Charlie notices Rick walking to the farmhouse with a pump-action shotgun in his hand. He sends Charlie a wave as he climbed the stairs to the wooden porch, a boyish grin on his face. He sneaks to a window, peeks inside, and then sneaks back to the front door. Without hesitation, he blasts the part of the door frame where the locking bar would be with his shotgun, shielding his eyes with his free hand and turning his head away in case of shrapnel.
Charlie’s web is blasted as well.
Sam pokes a revolver into Charlie’s face as she watched Rick in horror. Sam was smiling, his gun was not. Rick kicks the door open, and then he enters the house with his gun up. Muffled sounds of things dropping and shouting follows. A grey mutt crawls out from under the porch and begins to bark furiously at the loud intrusion.
Today really was a “Fuck Charlie Day”.
Sam steps out of the car and motions for Charlie to come out, his revolver still pointed at her. When Charlie comes out, he gets behind her and hooks his hands into her bra strap on the back. Sam shoves her forward with the hooked hand. Charlie reluctantly shuffles towards the house.
The furious mutt notices them. It stops its barking, and growls threateningly. Its eyes and lips peel back in canine wrath. Sam shoots the dog twice. Charlie flinched in fright. The dog lets out a shrill yelp, collapsing to the ground. Trembling, it tries to drag itself away. Sam fires another shot and the dog comes to an immediate stop. It does not even make a noise this time. It pawed the dirt weakly, shuddered, and then it was still.
Things were spinning out of control for Charlie. Things were getting painfully real. The heavy-duty regret-drill screwed her stomach into a spiraling knot. She cursed herself for setting up the stupid trap.
Charlie entered the house with Sam. She sees Rick in the living room. He is sitting in a La-Z-Boy sofa with his leg slung over the arm rest, pointing his shotgun at a woman in her 50′s and a small boy with freckles. The woman and the child sat on a 3-seat couch, perpendicular to where Rick was.
The child stared at the ground. His freckled face was rigid and his clear blue eyes were full of fear. The woman was trying to comfort the child. She placed herself between the child and Rick and tried to hide Rick from the boy’s view, hugging the boy’s head close to her.
Sam thrusts Charlie towards the couch and her shin gets caught on the corner of the coffee table. Charlie glowered at Sam as she pressed her palm against the resulting cut.
“Sorry, princess.” Sam leered.
“Check the house,” Rick ordered Sam, “and check the upstairs too. Not like last time, you dumb shit.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Sam replied. Charlie detected a hint of resentment in Sam as he climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Think Charlie! Think! Her previous web was destroyed beyond all recognition. She had to weave a new web and weave it fast. Things were already getting physical. She had to think. Her life depended on it.
Charlie calculates her outs. This place was near where she parted with the gunslinger, but the odds of the gunslinger showing up was slim to none. They have not killed any people yet, which was a good sign. Hopefully it will stay that way, even after they get what they want, but that line of hope was thinning out.
Why was she here? What would they want from her? Sexual gratification of course. Charlie held no illusions about what brutes like these wanted from her. She also knew she would be discarded after, most likely dead or near death.
Rick was too sharp, but Sam could be disarmed if she played her cards right, and she could open an opportunity to escape. But that was too much risk on her part.
Think Charlie! She recalls the resentment Sam displayed when Rick called him a “dumb shit”. This was her best out. She could play that to her advantage. Cause them to fight each other.
She needed a foundation to base her scheme. Charlie weaves a story in her mind of Rick and Sam. What their life was like. How they felt about each other. They were not just stories, they were educated guesses. Charlie did not have the time nor the position to fact-check, so she needed to be right on with her guesses.
Charlie gathers what little information she has so far gleaned. Rick was charming, confident, and handsome. Sam was the opposite. Sam must have felt oppressed by his older brother growing up. Rick got all the girls and all the nice things. People just liked Rick better than him. Sam must have tried to be more like his brother at one point. Rick probably laughed and mocked his attempts. Sam withdrew, but Sam now thinks he is his own person. That’s why he goes out of his way to look different from his brother. He wants to be his own person. Have his own merits.
Charlie tries to make sense out of Sam’s vulgar treatment of her. She bet that every girl, Sam had ever liked, ended up with Rick, his self-assured brother. Even the ones that started out liking Sam ended up with Rick. Rick would have his fun with them, maybe let Sam have the left overs. Sam maybe even idolized a certain girl, only to have her seduced by Rick, and watch Rick use her, then treat her like trash. Rick would make fun of Sam’s ‘love’ for the girl. Sam wants to comfort her, but she treats him like trash in return. His disgust for women stems from there. Sam thinks all women must be dumb to fall for his brother Rick. Sam was the one that cared, but women were too dumb. He probably believes to a certain extent that women like being used and then treated like sluts. Rick planted that seed in him. He has told Sam countless times that’s what women are, brainless cum-toilets, and Sam should treat one as such.
Rick must care very much about his little brother. Rick has no real need for Sam, why would he keep him around? Sam makes Rick feel needed and powerful. Rick feeds off of Sam’s insecurity. It would upset Rick very much to have his little brother rebel against him. Sam was the only person in this world that made him feel useful. If Sam rebelled, it would make him feel useless, and impotent.
Even though Charlie had interacted with Rick the most, he did not show himself too much. He really knew what he was doing, that was for sure.
Charlie calculates her moves according to her guesses. She needs to act like Rick disgusts her. At this point, that was easy. She needs to show that she is sharp and witty. Sam needs to see her emasculate his brother. Then praise Sam for his merits. Which may give Sam confidence to stand up to his brother. Next time Rick orders him around, Sam may challenge him. A window of opportunity should open up and she could escape, lose them in the cornfield.
“No one else.” Sam muttered to his brother as he came down the stairs.
“Come here and watch them.” Rick orders Sam again. Rick gets up and Sam sits down. Rick grabs a double-barrel shotgun, which was leaning next to the busted in front door. It must have been the house owner’s for just this sort of occasion. He checks the gun to see if it is loaded, and then leans next to a window to keep a look out.
Charlie has nursed her web back to life. It is tattered, but it is the only thing that could save her. She notices Sam’s eyes on her. It was time to dance on her tattered web.
Sam is undressing her with his eyes. His eyes linger on her breasts, watching it swell and recede. He traces her spaghetti strapped, chick-yellow, tank top with his gaze. Then shifts it down to her midriff and thighs. He traces the edges of her low-rise denim shorts with his gaze as if in a trance. Then it rises up to her bare neck and fragile shoulders. Finally, Sam looks her in the face. He is a little startled to see Charlie’s alluring hazel eyes meet his, and hold him in spot. Sam thought it looked a little sad, but inviting at the same time.
Sam looks away for a moment and looks back at Charlie. He sneers. “You sure is pretty.”
Her guess at his character may be right on. Fangs bared, the queen spider sways and leaps, gracefully dancing her way to the mark.
Charlie parts her lips, and lowers her gaze in pretense of being flattered. If she could control her blood flow, she would have liked to put some flush on her cheeks as well.
“You make me pretty…” Charlie said softly, looking away from Sam, her gaze still lowered. She had remembered the gunslinger’s poetic beliefs about beauty. She expects her words to boost Sam’s ego and make her appear sensual and demure.
Sam’s eyes widened. He was obviously surprised. No girl he had ever known responded to him like that.
“Hey! Don’t talk to that bitch.” Rick barked to Sam from his look-out post, a little annoyed.
“He can talk to me if he wants to, Rick!” Charlie shot back with disdain.
Rick got a funny look on his face. His eyes were not playful anymore and it was narrowed as if to study her. Sam glanced at his brother and then fidgeted with the shotgun.
Snapping back at Rick was a dangerous gamble for Charlie, but it made Rick look as if he was jealous. Subconsciously lowering Sam’s esteem for Rick.
Charlie bet that Sam has never seen people talk back to Rick, especially in a nasty situation like this, especially a girl, especially in defense of him. She hoped Sam’s suspicion of his brother, holding him down on purpose, was growing bigger and bigger in his head.
Rick squints at something outside. “Quick! Give me the kid!” He anxiously ordered to Sam from his post. Rick had spotted a truck on the homestead’s winding dirt driveway. It was making its way towards the house.
Hearing the villain order for the kid, the woman held the freckled boy tighter. Charlie glanced at the woman and the boy nervously, afraid of Rick’s intent.
“Why?” Sam asked showing more resentment than the last time. He was challenging Rick’s authority at the worst of timings.
Charlie was delighted in what might be the result of her ploy. She began to wonder if she could save everyone, not just herself. If the brothers fought, she could coax them to be openly hostile. Charlie figured that with villains like these two, there was a real possibility of one killing the other. In the commotion, they could all slip away. Maybe even get a chance to kill both.
Charlie pictured herself shooting the brothers, and felt sick in the stomach. She knew things may lead to a point where she has to take violent action, but she doubted if she could do something like that. Making and watching people hurt themselves was one thing, doing it herself was an entirely different world. The thought of hurting someone with her own hands made her skin crawl and hair stand. It made her dizzy and queasy.
Charlie really missed the gunslinger. He could do it. “It’s not just about pulling the trigger. You gotta kill yourself first, before you can kill someone else.” He told her once. What the hell did that even mean?
Charlie felt angry and betrayed. She felt like she could chew up the gunslinger. How dared he abandon her! The whole reason she was in this spot was because he left her!
“Sam!” Rick hissed. “Give me the kid, you dumb piece of shit!”
The truck driver was out of his truck. He was a barrel chested man in his late 50′s, wearing denim overalls. He gave the strange car in his front yard a puzzled look.
“Sam!” Rick hissed again.
Rick crouches below the windows and speeds over to the woman holding her child. He tries to tear the child from her grip. The woman holds onto her child with fierce tenacity.
“No! N-o! N-o! Let go!” The woman shouted as Rick tore the child away from her. The freckled boy squirmed and struggled, grunting and crying. Full of panic, his hands struggled to reach for his mother.
The woman lets out a hysterical scream. “Give him back! Give him ba-ck! Let him g-o!” She clings to Rick, sobbing in desperation.
The panic attacks Charlie had developed, after Brad tried to rape her, sent riveting waves through her heart. She stiffened and squeezed her eyes tight to block the feeling out. If she let it claim her now, she would not be able to think clearly, and thinking was the only thing she could do to survive!
Charlie wished she could help the woman. Make Rick stop. But she was disabled, her mind was already getting foggy. Her whole body was shaking. The smell of dirt was back in her nose. Unable to do anything, powerless, she has never hated herself more.
Rick sets the child down and strikes the woman with the butt of his shotgun. Something switched off inside the woman then. She wailed like a banshee as she launched herself at Rick. Her eyes were feral and she frothed at the mouth. The whole house seemed to shake at her head-splitting cry.
The woman grabs Rick by his vest collars and slams him against the wall. Rick, scowling, makes his shotgun breathe fire through the woman’s lower belly. The woman’s legs violently spasm out from under her, but her grip does not loosen on Rick’s collar. Rick gets bent over by her tenacious grip. The woman claws Rick’s face furiously, maintaining a death grip on him with the other hand. Rick’s double-barrel shotgun breathes its second fire, this time, angled into her chest. The woman’s unlatched arm spasms wildly like a salmon out of water. Her grip gets tighter, but her body fails her will. She succumbs to massive physical trauma.
The freckled boy had rolled into a trembling ball, covering his ears, his eyes shut tight, too afraid even to cry. A puddle of urine was forming where he lay.
This was Charlie’s opportunity to make a run for it. Rick was out of shells and Sam might hesitate to shoot her. This was the only chance she might get. Things have escalated to the physical realm and she had no control! They would not kill the boy, would they? It did not matter. Charlie just wanted to be away from all this violence! The panic inside her was not going away and her mind was turning into a hazy goo. There is nothing clever about hazy goo. Hazy goo will not save her.
“Sam!” Rick hollered, struggling to pry the dead woman’s fingers off his suede vest. “The door!”
Just as Sam points the pump-action shotgun at the door, the barrel chested man bursts through with a bolt-action rifle at the ready.
Charlie had missed her window. Her trembling body and mind had refused her will to move. As Charlie, once again, struggled to keep herself together, she notices Sam’s revolver, tucked behind his tattered jeans at the waist.
She could grab it! Sam is distracted and Rick is unarmed! But could she shoot Sam?
“Drop it, old man!” Rick had taken off his vest, pulled out a snub-nosed revolver, and had the small child by the neck.
Again, Charlie had missed her window to grab Sam’s revolver. It was too late. She would be shot and killed. She would have been shot and killed if she had grabbed it too. Charlie wanted to give up. Her heart was beating too hard. Her hands shook and her thoughts were mush. No strategies. No tactics. No plans.
Charlie’s web had disintegrated a long time ago. With the woman’s violent death, they had just crossed the line of civility and entered the realm of animals. Charlie had no power there.
Metallic scent of the woman’s blood lingered in her nose and made her dizzy. Smoky odor of gunpowder made her want to throw up. Charlie sat on the couch, crunching herself into a form that was as small as possible.
The barrel chested man sees his dead wife, torn to shreds. He notices the discarded double-barrel shotgun. His shotgun. His wife was torn by his shotgun.
He had went to town to pick up some hardware. Noticed a stranger’s car in his driveway. He thought it might be his oldest son, back from his deployment in Afghanistan. Then he saw his dog, shot and dead. Immediately after, he heard his wife, Maggie, scream. He hurried to his truck to fetch his rifle — entered the house to find himself too late.
The barrel chested man grips his rifle tighter. He wanted blood. The blood of these two demons that took the mother of his three children. She was the woman who cooked for him and fed him, the woman who made a face and then laughed when he farted, the woman who clapped and giggled when he did impressions of Elvis, the woman who snuggled next to him at night for warmth. She was the woman. His woman.
Blood lust raged up and down the barrel chested man. He almost did not see his baby boy being held hostage.
“You let my boy go.” Veins popping out on his neck and forehead, eyes burning with the wrath of God, the man growled through grinding teeth.
“Sure, drop your gun.” Rick smiled his heart-breaker smile, his light brown eyes dancing playfully.
Smirking, Sam put the barrel of the pump-action against the barrel-chested man’s head.
The man, his blood boiling, barely reigning in his rage, knowing it was a stupid move, lowers his rifle at a slim chance to save his boy.
Sam sends a shotgun slug into the man’s head as soon as his weapon is lowered. The man simply crumples to the ground like a rag doll with a quarter of his head missing.
Charlie, in her foggy state of mind, was certain of one thing now. This was it. All bets were off. These were not rapists. These were not bandits out for loot. She was dealing with a couple of psychopathic killers. There was no logic to their motives. They simply enjoyed killing. Just as a cat enjoys killing mice. Just as children enjoy squashing bugs. That freckled boy was going to die tonight. Charlie was going to die tonight.
It quickly got dark outside. A lightning bolt flashed, followed by a rumbling thunder. It began to rain. Hard.
In overwhelming terror, Charlie finally let go. Her hazel eyes glazed into a dull grey and her thoughts went to a far away place.
Charlie wondered what other 18-year-old girls were doing right now. Receiving texts from their boyfriends. Studying for an exam in their cozy two-story suburban homes. Out on a joy-ride with their friends listening to rap music. Chatting on Facebook, crying about how their parents are too strict and how they can’t wait to be on their own. She wished she was them. She wished she was anybody but Charlie, sitting in this blood soaked house from hell.
As the sun was setting, the gunslinger had strayed near the treeline for light. He spotted a homestead. It was about a half mile away. He guessed that the boy he met lived there. Scratching his shaggy black mane, he sat and leaned against a tree. He would spend the night here, and head into the woods at light. He was done with civilization. He could live in mindless bliss, deep in the woods, where no one will ever see him again. Where he would see no one.
Two successive pops, a muffled yelp, followed by another pop, jolts the gunslinger awake from his musings. He tentatively gets up and peeks out the treeline. A long-haired man and a girl who resembled Charlie was entering the house. The gunslinger was not 100% sure the sounds were from a gun. They sound more concentrated and lighter than any other similar noise. Like miniature thunders. If close enough, you can almost feel the sound wave hitting you. In this case, it was too far for him to discern with absolute certainty.
The gunslinger decided to take a closer look. He owed the boy a slice of pie after all. Worth checking out a possible trouble in exchange.
Keeping the cornfield on his left, the gunslinger jogged towards the homestead.
As the gunslinger neared the clearing to the house, he heard a piercing wail. He spotted a barrel chested man frantically searching for something in his truck. The gunslinger slid into the cornfield. Two definite gunshots rang from the house just before the barrel chested man heaved through the door with a rifle in his hand. Another miniature thunder struck from the inside of the house a minute later.
The gunslinger drew his 1911, and sneaked to the side of the house. He saw Mr. Happy, a grey mutt, a mix between husky and something else, dead with its tongue lolled out. The gunslinger climbed onto the porch, over the railing, flinching at the creaking of the wooden boards he stepped on. Out the front door where the barrel chested man had entered, he saw a thick hairy arm sticking out at ground level.
Keeping low, he chose a window with curtains and peeked inside. Fully ready to open fire, in case he was spotted. Definitely Charlie sat on the far corner of a 3-seat couch. She looked out of it. The freckled boy was rolled into a ball, face buried in the couch’s backing, and he was quivering against Charlie’s hip. The gunslinger spotted a blood spattered foot with its white slipper thrown off, right under the very window he was looking through. He saw only one man. He had his back turned to the gunslinger and held a snub-nosed revolver in his hand.
A bolt of lightning streaked near by, followed by a rumbling thunder. It began to rain. Hard.
The gunslinger sent Charlie a quick wave. Her eyes were glazed and she was too out of it to notice him. “Goddamn it, Charlie…” The gunslinger growled under his breath and sent her another quick wave.
The arm that was sticking out, slid into the house. Alarmed, the gunslinger took a knee and aimed down the door way, in case someone decided to poke his head out. The door slammed shut. The gunslinger let out the breath he was holding.
“Check outside, you stupid mother fucker.” An irritated voice commanded. The gunslinger, dexterously leaped over the railing, landing quietly next to Mr. Happy’s carcass. He slithered under the porch as he heard the busted door creak open. Boots thumped right above his head. The thumping went away, paused, came back, then it went away again. The door slammed shut and the gunslinger heard muffled voices. There was definitely more than one target. At least two, maybe three.
The gunslinger could not just go in there guns blazing. Not against armed opponents. This was not an action movie and he was not invincible. From the military manuals he studied before becoming a gunslinger, it stressed the dangers of making entry. Making entry was the most fatal part of urban combat. He cannot just stroll in, spit his cigar out, and deliver a punch line like, “Ya feel lucky, punk?” then wax all the baddies in a blink of an eye. Most likely, he would be shot as soon as he made entry, maybe kill or wound one of them if he was lucky.
What he needed was a distraction. Or somehow separate the baddies from each other, so he could ambush each one. If Charlie would just wake the fuck up, she could distract them long enough for him to take the initiative. Or at least signal to him how many ass-holes are in there.
Lacking critical information, the gunslinger considers praying to whatever god that will help and just make entry. He goes over what he should immediately do when he entered. Hammer pair the first one as soon as he entered and control pair the other one before he raised his weapon, then finish with a box drill. That is, if there is only two of them. Third target will mean the gunslinger will have to do a speed reload and then fire a shot before he gets shot. Considering how he was not freaking Rambo and this was not freaking Hollywood, it was terribly unlikely to have things go as he planned it inside his head. But at this time, it seemed the only thing he could do.
The gunslinger deftly climbs back up on the porch again. He had to make a move and make a move soon. Two people were already dead, and once people are dead, the killing frenzy does not stop on its own.
The gunslinger visualizes what he saw inside. Remembering how the bodies and the furniture were placed. God forbid, he tripped on something as he made entry or while he maneuvered.
The fog of war was too thick for the gunslinger to pierce. He would have to keep his head down until he made entry, meaning he would not have any idea of what state of enemy readiness he will be walking into. He would not have any idea where the targets would be until he actually entered. He would not know how many there actually were until he entered.
The gunslinger considered drawing them out, but decided against it. He did not know what kind of fire power they had. If they had a semi-automatic rifle, it was game over. Even if they did not, they still had fire superiority, their however many guns against his seven rounds capacity per mag. He only had three magazines. Running out of bullets meant death. Maybe Charlie could escape with the boy during the mayhem, but the gunslinger was not a martyr nor was he a saint. Besides, it could all be for nothing if they died. Drawing them out will have to be a last resort strategy.
All this would be much easier if Charlie could distract them for a single second!
The gunslinger crouches near the door, listening intently through the cracks. Ready to make entry at the hint of distraction. Ready to open fire at the hint of detection of his presence.
Rick was sitting back on the La-Z-Boy with his leg slung over the arm rest. Sam sat next to the quivering boy on the 3-seat.
The boy cringed closer to Charlie for a shred of comfort, but Charlie was not here. Charlie was fully aware, but she was not here. She was off in a world where her concerned mom was knocking on her locked door over the bag of weed she found in her belongings.
“I think this one’s sweet on you, Sammy boy!” Rick claimed, smiling. His light brown eyes dazzled with boyish glee. Sam gave Rick a smug look. What Charlie did was not all for nothing. Sam certainly did feel like a better human being. Someone as pretty as Charlie had praised him, instead of Rick. In their world of madness, that was pretty important right now. Rick did not seem as imposing to him, but Rick was still the leader of the duo.
“Hey, wake-up, sweetie.” Rick snapped his fingers at Charlie. Her eyes fluttered, but she refused to come back to reality. Rick knew how the girl had brought down his authority in front of his little brother. Simply killing her would not do. He had to make an example out of this for Sam. He had to dehumanize and degrade her. Get Sam to see her as sub-human — not that they didn’t already — to bring the value of her opinion down. Then chastise his brother back to his true status of a dependent. Make Sam realize how he was nothing without Rick.
Rick leaned over and backhanded Charlie across the head. She just fell over like an empty shell, next to the shaking boy. Her pupils were dilated, unfocused. She had completely submitted to the horror. Once her will crumbled, the directionless mind drifted. Once she had lost her mind, her body shut down. She was not here. She was a content high school senior, picking out dresses for the prom.
Rick laughed, his handsome face showed sincere joy. He looked just like the picture of joyful Jesus in Christian homes, minus the beard.
The gunslinger could not hear very well. The rain was pelting too hard against the roof of the porch. He flinched at what sounded like laughter. He wondered if that was his cue to make entry.
“Ever seen a pig woman, Sammy boy?” Rick asked, grinning devilishly. Sam shook his head, eyes gleaming with interest. “This one’ll make a real nice piglet.”
Rick grabs Charlie by the neck and sits her up straight. The boy flinched as Rick pulled his urine soaked cargo shorts off. The boy, in his briefs, paws and grabs at Charlie for assurance. Charlie feels it, Charlie knows it, but Charlie just cannot deal with the macabre sights around her.
The torn woman, faceless man, memories of sexual assault, smell of dirt, sense of helplessness, loneliness, Charlie just cannot deal with them all.
Rick turns his head from the piss ridden cargo shorts and exaggerates the stink. “Pee- whew!”
He puts it on Charlie’s head as if it were a hat, pulling out her pony tail out one of the leg holes. Charlie flinched at the touch, but she was still gone.
“See how she likes that, Sammy Boy?” Rick laughed. Sam grinned at his older brother, truly amused. “Piglets love piss! I bet she’ll even drink it straight off the cock!”
“Sure love to see that!” Sam snickered. He gets up, unzips his pants, grabbed Charlie by her pony tail and rubbed his crotch on her cheeks. “Whooo-Whee!” He whooped.
“But before that–” Rick pushed Sam away in the middle of his insane mating dance. Rick snapped a pocket knife open and grabbed Charlie’s nose.
As he laid the cold blade against her nostril, Charlie’s body screamed to her mind. She gasped back to reality, reeling away from Rick.
“Here – piggy piggy. You gotta hold still, piggy.” Rick chortled.
The child grabs Rick’s hand. Rick raises an eye brow at the unexpected touch.
The boy looked up at him, still curled into a ball, deathly afraid and shaking. “P–p–plea-please sto- sto- stop. I- I- I- have pie-p-pie. I gi-give y-you -” The boy pleaded. His freckled face was a crusted mess of snot and tears and new tears were flooding out of his clear blue eyes.
Rick frowned. Now a small child, whose balls have not even dropped, was deciding to get in his way. He folded his blade, picked up the boy, and stood him up straight in front of him. “Wh-w-w-w-what?” Rick mocked the child with a warm smile.
“P-p-pie-” The boy said, trembling in his briefs. He forced a feeble smile unto his freckled face. Rick got up before the boy could finish, and kicked him in the stomach. The boy lifted straight off the ground and landed face first. The boy did not and could not make a sound. Instead, the boy violently began to convulse where he lay. His eyes rolled up and his arms and legs, locked and unlocked in painful jerks. The boy arched his back and made snorting noises mixed with hiccups.
Charlie looked upon in horror. She prayed desperately, sobbing hysterically and cringing into a ball herself, trying to not look at the boy.
God please help me. Please help me. Please help me. I can’t do anything, please help me. Why won’t you strike these men down?! Why?! Do your fucking job! Do your fucking job!
“Never seen that before!” Sam cackled, clutching his stomach and pointing his finger at the boy in throes of a severe seizure.
The longer the gunslinger waited, the situation got foggier for him. He decided to nudge the broken door open a bit more to get better sound, and maybe even peek inside. Hoping if anyone noticed, they would think it was the wind.
Charlie thought this must be a dream. This had to be a dream! A horrible nightmare. Without the will to give direction, her mind slipped away again. She wakes up in her nice suburban home, in her room, decorated with posters of alternative bands and pictures of her smiling friends.
Potent smell of urine jolts her back to reality like a defibrillator. She did not notice the boy’s shorts on her head until then.
Her mind began to make a series of connections. Dirty smell. Dirty. Nasty. Smell of dirt. Brad. Her. These men. It began to make faster connections. Faster and faster. Reality reassembled as if it was on rewind. Her mind was back. It is odd how that worked. Smallest thing made the biggest change. In this case, the smell of the boys piss.
Self-hate at her cowardice, at her helplessness, at her selfishness, hate for these men, hate for this situation, all consolidated and condensed into just hate. Pure hate. A single theme of unrelenting thought etched itself into her being.
These men must die. Rick must die. Sam must die. They are dead.
Cold fury chilled her body and soul into malevolent serenity. Charlie had killed herself. Charlie was not here. Death was here.
Charlie’s mind switched into higher gear. Her thoughts were clear, loud, and organized. Millions of cognitive thoughts in her head processed in a flash after flash. She has never experienced something like this before. Never once in her habitual, almost obsessive compulsive, calculations. She gained hyper-clarity. She was not thinking anymore. She just knew what she needed to do and knew exactly what would happen. If God was not going to strike these men down where they stood — she will.
Rick raised his foot to stomp the little boy who lay unconscious. Charlie throws herself to cover the boy. Rick stomps anyways. Charlie’s delicate body hunches over the child as she shields the boy from the blows.
Do not defend, attack.
Charlie turns, shoulders Rick’s raised leg and pounced into Rick like a lioness. Rick, his balance lost, flipped over the La-Z-Boy with Charlie. With her hyper-clarity, everything happened in slow motion. She coldly, precisely, grabbed the barrel of the pump-action shotgun in Rick’s hand as they tumbled over. With the help of her momentum, she redirects the barrel of the shotgun right under Rick’s masculine jaw as they hit the ground. Startled, Sam raises his revolver.
Thud! That was the gunslinger’s cue. He slips in, gliding like a snake in water, his pistol at the ready. He sees Charlie on top of Rick. He sees Sam getting up, raising his revolver. Twice surprised by the gunslinger’s entrance, Sam hesitates for less than half a second, unsure of whom to shoot first. Lightning flashes nearby, lighting up everyone in surreal white. The gunslinger has the initiative. As he glides towards Sam, his .45 caliber projectile leaves his gun first, and buries itself center-mass in Sam’s chest. Sam, his revolver pointed at the gunslinger, squeezed the trigger a hair late. Impact of the gunslinger’s first bullet spasm Sam’s arm upwards, and he ends up firing at the ceiling. Another .45 caliber impaled Sam’s chest. It exits out his throat due to the ricochet from his rib-cage. Mean while, Rick, as a purely instinctive reaction, squeezes his hand, not realizing his finger was on the trigger, his brain too late to make sense of the barrel pointed at himself. A simple — honest to God — brain fart. Unforgiving shotgun slug carves a path through Rick’s face, ripping his jaw off in the process, splitting the rest of his face in half. Spraying and covering Charlie’s face in pink mist that is full of tiny chunks of Rick’s handsome face. The lightning flash dies out. The gunslinger, now a few feet away from Sam, who was clutching at the hole in his throat, sinks a third bullet between Sam’s eyes. Pieces of Sam’s medulla-oblongata blows out behind his head. Sam’s brain does not even know that it just died. After a quick glance at Charlie, The gunslinger begins a sweep of the rest of the first floor.
Rick gurgles blood, his legs ticking and twitching. He is still alive for some amazing reason. Charlie takes the boy’s cargo shorts off her head, wraps it around her hand, then she stuffs it, deep down Rick’s throat. She holds it there, feeling Rick’s insides. The beat of his pounding heart, squeezing of his inner muscles. Charlie whispers intimately into Rick’s ear. “Shh… sweetie. It’ll be quick, I promise.” She inches it down deeper and deeper. Rick squirmed, his hands jerking and curling into itself. It was not quick. Rick heaved and arched his back, shuddering as if he was having the greatest orgasm in his life. So good, that he could not tell the difference between pain and pleasure. Then he falls limp, lifeless. Thunder rolls and finishes with a deafening crack. Charlie pulls her hand out, leaving the shorts inside Rick. She wipes her hand on Rick’s shirt. She wrinkles and wiggles her nose. It itched from Rick’s blood being sprayed on her face.
“You know… it really weirds me out when you do that. Why don’t you just scratch it?” The gunslinger commented, as he aimed up the staircase to the second floor.
“That’s all of them.” Charlie informed the gunslinger, ignoring his comment.
The gunslinger loads a fresh mag and pockets the one he just used. Then he takes a knee by the freckled boy, lying unconscious on his side. The gunslinger checked the child’s breathing while he also checked the pulse. Nothing. He sees the boy’s swollen belly. It was bluish red and stretched out like a balloon. The boy had bled out from the inside. There was nothing he could do for the boy.
“I’m sorry.” The gunslinger said softly.
The storm moves away and all is silent save for occasional drip drops.
Charlie and the gunslinger walk back to their beat-down truck. Neither wanted to touch anything that belonged to the slaughtered family. Neither wanted to touch anything that belonged to the murdering brothers. Neither wanted to speak.
Charlie repairs the connectors. The gunslinger studies her, puzzled. Then he realized how she ended up in the boy’s house.
“It must be hard being a woman.” The gunslinger stated.
“You have no idea…” Charlie said, the air of gloom did not suit her well. “It’s harder being a girl.”
With that, they were on the road again. They drove until Charlie could not drive any more. Far and away from the horrors of the farmstead. Neither of them spoke throughout the drive. They find an off-road clearing to sleep in until morning.
Full moon was out. The stars littered the galaxy above them. The gunslinger and Charlie opened their seats back and lied down. They were tired, but sleep would not come.
“You know…” The gunslinger broke the silence. “That boy… …,” he grimaced, “no. Never mind.”
“What is it?” Charlie turned her head to look at the gunslinger. The gunslinger had his arms folded behind his head, frowning at nothing.
“He… he gave me apple pie,” the gunslinger continued, “…what a waste. That kid would have made many friends growing up. He would have been a great young man. Brave. Caring. He would have been a faithful husband to his wife, an outstanding father to his children. He would have been someone worth much more to this world than I could ever be. He really deserved to live. Yet, he is dead, and I’m still here.” The gunslinger reflected as if he was delivering a eulogy.
“… He saved me,” Charlie added, ashamed, “he… I… I couldn’t do anything. I was so scared. I only thought of myself,” she began to sob, writhing in embarrassment, ”he saved me.” Charlie moaned and wept. “I killed him! I killed his mom! I killed his dad! I killed them!” Charlie turned away. She wrinkled into a fetus in her seat and melted in tears and guilt.
The gunslinger just listened to her.
“…Say something.” Charlie moaned. “…Say something damn it! Call me a dumb cunt! I killed them! They died because of me!” She groaned, blubbering like a child.
“Shut up Charlie,” the gunslinger frowned, turning his head away, “just… shut up…”
Charlie sobbed out a tearful moan. “… You hate me. I know you hate me! Just say it! Everyone hates me!”
“Charlie…” The gunslinger began, turning back to look at her. Charlie had her back turned to him. She was still in the fetal position, her delicate frame wrecking in shame. He wanted to say something. Anything. But nothing could be said. No words of wisdom. No words of comfort.
The gunslinger reached his hand out to her rocking shoulder, but stopped inches from it and withdrew his hand.
“Listen Charlie,” the gunslinger growled coldly, “you need to stop your pussy bullshit. I really don’t give a shit if you are responsible or not! You shouldn’t either. You’re still here. They are not. When you’re weak, you die. When you’re unlucky, you die. It’s not our place to make sense of it. Just deal with it! Just…,” the gunslinger paused, at a loss for words, “… stop crying!”
Charlie did stop crying. Her back was still turned. The sobs had ceased.
The image of the freckled boy, nervously smiling at Rick as he offered pie was burning in her mind. She would never forget it as long as she lived.
“…How can you say that,” Charlie seethed with resentment and anger, “HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT!?” Charlie turned and pounced on the gunslinger. “HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT! HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT! HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT!” She slapped, punched, and shook the gunslinger by his thick black hair. The gunslinger scowled, but he did not lift his arms to block or to push her away. He just let her beat on him. Charlie, on top of him, beat on him until she could not slap, punch, and shake anymore.
When she slowed to a stop, she sat on him, head lowered and face full of mixed emotions. She panted quietly.
“Are you done?” The gunslinger asked, parting a single eye open to see if she really was done. “Then get o-”
“…When you left,” Charlie interrupted. She was not done. “…You can’t say that to me,” new tears shed from her eyes and dropped on the gunslinger’s chest, “you can’t…” she tapped the gunslinger on his chest with her fist, “you can’t,” she tapped again.
“Get off!” The gunslinger sneered.
“You can’t!” Charlie smacked the gunslinger on his forehead with her palm. “…You can’t say that to me.” She murmured, her delicate hand still resting on the gunslinger’s forehead.
The gunslinger turns his face to the side, away from her mournful gaze. Charlie’s hand slides off.
“I won’t.” The gunslinger promised flatly. Charlie smiled a little, her natural glee creeping back into her eyes.
“Say you’re sorry.” Charlie demanded.
The gunslinger grabs her by the waist and pushes her back into her seat. “Ow!” Charlie complained. The gunslinger turns his back to her.
“Would it kill you to say you’re sorry!” Charlie whined in a mix of exasperation and admiration.
The gunslinger recalls the freckled boy. Him demanding that the gunslinger stop saying bad words. His stick-sword. Pie. His drawing of Mr. Happy. The emptiness of his dead body.
“… it does.” The gunslinger replied.
Charlie smiles as she wipes the tears off her face. She felt drowsy all of a sudden and lied back down, drifting into sleep.
“… Hey.” The gunslinger called to Charlie.
“Yeah?” Charlie answered softly, half asleep.
“That thing you did to that guy at the house — that was gross!” The gunslinger chuckled. “Why — in the fuck! — would you put your hand in there?!”
“He liked it.” Charlie recalled dimly, “He liked me inside him.”
“Wow…,” the gunslinger paused, “that’s hot!” He snickered.
“Are you over your ‘no one loves me’ thing?” Charlie asked imitating a cry baby.
The gunslinger mulled over what he was so angry about.
“Charlie, you ever think we might be just some made up things? That has no real value to anyone? Even to God?” The gunslinger asked, not getting mad at all this time.
“Some ass-hole once told me — not our place.” Charlie quipped.
“… That’s one fine hole from a smart-ass.” The gunslinger quipped back.
“God–! Do you actually think you’re clever?” Charlie taunted.
“Come on! Smart-ass, ass-hole? Don’t you get it?” The gunslinger, grinning like a child, explained his pun.
Charlie looked at him in amused disbelief. Then she finally laughed and chuckled without pretense.
The smiling gunslinger gave Charlie a funny look, puzzled over her sincere mirth. ”Okay Charlie… It’s not - that - funny.” The gunslinger scoffed playfully.
Despite the emotional scars grooved into her, Charlie knew she could carry on.
After some bickering and bantering, they fall asleep. Forgetting the horrors of the day.
“So… you have a gun?” Gary asked tentatively.
“Sure do,” the self-proclaimed gunslinger replied without breaking his piercing eye contact, while his lips curled into a roguish smirk. “Do you need something shot?”
“N-No! … I’m looking for advice.”
The gunslinger’s fox-like eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I do,” he growled dangerously.
Gary froze, feeling stupid and threatened at the same time. An awkward long pause followed with neither of them saying anything. The gunslinger scanned Gary, his gaze darting to Gary’s hands, then the surroundings to spot any kind of funny business.
Only thing that helped Gary regain his wits was a single feeling. Desperation. The desperation he felt after Cheryl left him. After, not during. Gary believed she would come back to him. He thought if he tried harder, she would look at him again, laugh at his jokes again. He tried hard, as best he knew how. He sent her flowers and ‘I’m sorry’ letters. He called and sent texts, only to be ignored. Gary found himself standing outside Cheryl’s apartment, waiting for her, wondering if what he was doing was stalking. That is when he felt it — desperation. This was not who he was. This was not who he imagined himself as. Gary had high ideals for himself. Things in the lines of honor, strength, and chivalry. As Gary began to find himself distasteful, he saw Cheryl’s red Chevy rolling into the parking lot. He turned and briskly walked away in shame, hoping she did not notice him.
While drowning himself in liquor to numb the self-hate at a local bar, Gary saw this man, this gunslinger. Gary instantly noticed there was something special about the man. Something he wanted, and it was not the pretty blonde who accompanied him inside. Gary secretly studied the man and the girl while nursing his drink. He stole quick glances at the couple as they ate the bar’s dinner special. At one moment, the man turned his head and looked directly at Gary, while Gary was trying to get a better look at the man’s face. Gary immediately looked away and raised the glass to his lips to put up an air of nonchalance.
As they left, something inside Gary drove him to go after them. He had to talk to this man. It was probably the alcohol, but to Gary, God had shown him a sign.
When the man identified himself as a gunslinger, Gary knew he was on the right track. This man could help him. Gary had one thing in mind – I want what he has.
“I need your help. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll pay cash for your advice,” Gary said with renewed confidence.
The gunslinger was caught off-guard by Gary’s statement.
“Just help him!” The girl piped from the driver seat of their beat-down truck.
The gunslinger gave the girl an annoyed glance, scowled and said to Gary, “Okay, talk.”
Delighted, Gary explained his situation with Cheryl and how he felt about it. Alcohol helped him be as honest and explicit as possible.
The gunslinger listened quietly, but he had “What the fuck?” written all over his face.
“So what do you want me to do about it?” The gunslinger snapped, dumbfounded.
“Well, like I said, I need advice…” Gary stammered feeling stupid again.
“What kind of advice do you think I can give you? What are you talking about?” The gunslinger pressured.
“… I need you to help me be who I’m supposed to be!” Gary exclaimed in frustration, but soon painfully realized how absurd he sounded. This whole fiasco was absurd.
To Gary’s surprise, the gunslinger’s face softened, his piercing eyes widened in amazement as if he saw Gary as a real person for the first time. The gunslinger’s gaze fell to the ground in thought. Gary’s head went blank, as if his mind had said all it wanted to, and simply waited for a response.
The girl comes out of the truck, lightly tugs the gunslinger’s leather jacket and says softly, “Oh my God… you have to help him.”
The gunslinger lifts his gaze back up to meet Gary’s, the piercing stare was replaced with mild amusement and acceptance, “Okay, I can help you-”
The girl interrupts the gunslinger, “We don’t need your money. But we’d like a place to stay for a bit!”
The gunslinger gave the girl a long incredulous look, the girl mocked his incredulous look right back at him. Then she flashed Gary the brightest smile.
Gary grasped the opportunity, “That – that’s great! I have an extra bedroom and you guys can stay as long as you want!”
The gunslinger quietly stepped into the passenger side of their beat-down truck, rolled the window down and said with resignation, “Well Ga-ry, let’s go.”
“I’m Charlie,” the girl said with a perky curtsy, daintily lifting up her notional skirt, then extended her hand, “Thank you, Gary.”
Gary shook her hand, excited, and hurried to his car. The turn of events jostled him awake from his alcohol induced daze and he felt his head clear enough to drive.
When the trio entered Gary’s apartment, Gary had an episode of insecurity and doubt. He was inviting strangers into his home! Especially a stranger who claimed to be a gunslinger! Something was unreal and dangerous about all this.
“Uh – you guys can use the bedroom right there,” Gary pointed.
“I’ll be using the couch,” the gunslinger gruffly said.
Charlie pouts and mocks the gunslinger while pretending to swab at notional tears, “Aww, is the cute wittle man scared of wittle ol’ me?”
Ignoring her, the gunslinger sat on the sofa, sank into it comfortably, as if he owned the couch all along then turned the TV on.
Arms akimbo, Charlie straightens up, and furrows her brow in disapproval, “You have no manners, you know that?”
The gunslinger takes a deep breath. He was obviously annoyed. Charlie was pressing all the right buttons to make him lose his cool.
“You are being polite enough for the both of us,” the gunslinger scowled, stopping his channel browsing to watch cartoons. My Little Pony was on.
‘My little pony — My little pony –,’ the theme song played.
“Wow, maybe I should be the gunslinger and you can be the little girl.” Charlie suggested.
The gunslinger took another deep breath, turned the TV off, rolled his eyes to Charlie and questioned, “Happy?”
She ignored him and beamed a smile at Gary, “I’d like to take a shower. May I use your bathroom?”
“Yes, of course. The towels are in the closet.” Watching the exchange between Charlie and the gunslinger relaxed Gary. The gunslinger was not as crazy as his chosen profession implied, nor was he as dangerous as his first impression suggested.
Gary watched Charlie bounce happily to the bathroom. She appeared not to have a care in the world, and so full of life. Gary felt attracted and envious at the same time, envious at her carefree demeanor. Muffled sound of running water came from the bathroom as Charlie undressed and stepped into the shower. Gary, not knowing what else to do, took a seat next to the somber gunslinger.
“I wouldn’t look at her like that if I were you, Ga-ry.” The gunslinger had taken a liking to exaggerating the syllables in Gary’s name.
“Oh-uh- I’m sorry,” Gary stammered. “Is she – is she… yours?”
The gunslinger stifles a laughter. “She’s my employer, she’s the one who owns me.” The gunslinger pauses to study Gary, his face still amused, “Now, you’re my employer also. And as long as I’m being paid with the agreed sum of — your hospitality, I protect your interests. And that was my first advice to you. Don’t look at people like that.”
Hearing the outlaw articulate his professional attitude gave Gary confidence to dig deeper into the meaning of his advice. “Oh- why? Is it stupid? Creepy?”
The gunslinger squints and flattens his lips in slight disappointment.”…That maybe. But more importantly, it means you have a problem. A problem of prejudice. That stops you from being what you’re suppose’ to be. Because it stops you from seeing people for what they really are.”
Gary was confused. He always thought of himself as an open person. After all, he had even accepted the idea of a modern-day gunslinger and even had invited him into his home. He always gave people the benefit of the doubt. The way Gary saw it, his problem was not having enough prejudice.
The gunslinger eyes Gary while he is thinking. “It means you pretend to know things you have no idea of.”
“I know what prejudice means!” Gary snapped.
The gunslinger rolls his eyes and runs the tip of his tongue along his canine tooth, “No. No you don’t. Listen, I like you Gary. You’re one of the more honest people I’ve met. With some balls to boot. Let me break it down for you.”
“You like her — don’t you?” The gunslinger said pointing his chin at the bathroom Charlie was in.
Gary remained silent.
“I’m trying to do the job you asked me to do, Ga-ry,” the gunslinger continued, “What do you like about her?”
Gary hesitantly begins to speak, “… Well, she’s pretty… friendly… and… smart… and… alive…!”
“Okay, now prove it,” the gunslinger said.
“What?” Gary did not know where to begin.
“Prove your point,” the gunslinger insisted.
“Uh- well, I think pretty is obvious, she was nice to me, and… “
The gunslinger sighs and cuts him off. “She hasn’t done a single thing of substance for you since you met her and you think she is nice to you? Why? Because she smiled at you? Because she refused your money and instead takes a shower in your bathroom? I’m the one that’s nice to you. I’m the one that’s doing something for you right now. Wake the fuck up!”
Gary listened. What the gunslinger said made sense, but it just seemed wrong to be so calculating.
The gunslinger takes his jacket off to reveal his leather harness that holsters his gun under his left shoulder. He continues his lecture. “Listen, in reality, people all look the same. Two eyes, nose, and a mouth. You make them pretty and ugly. What else did you say? Smart? Did you see her solve a problem? Have you actually seen her being resourceful? Now, I will tell you right now, yes, she is smart. Dangerously so, in fact. But you didn’t see anything of her yet to make that judgment. And… of course she is alive! Just like you and me. We are alive too.”
“That’s not what I meant, when I said alive,” said Gary, flustered at being told he was wrong on everything.
“No. That is exactly what you meant. She likes to flaunt being alive is all. You have no idea what being alive means.”
Gary scoffs, “Are you saying you know the meaning of life?”
The gunslinger grins slyly, “Sure do, I also know what it means to die.”
Gary is in disbelief as he waits for the gunslinger to continue.
“Living means moving, and dying means stopping. That’s all there is to it,” said the gunslinger, matter-of-factly.
Gary raises an eyebrow, disappointed at such a pragmatic answer.
“Truth is always obvious,” the gunslinger continued, “You think she’s alive because she flaunts movement, and you like her because that moves you. Making you feel alive. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that, all I’m telling you is to know what the fuck is really going on.”
Gary mulled over the gunslinger’s explanation. It was true. “You’re a gunslinger?” Gary questioned.
The gunslinger gives Gary a blank look. “Yes, I am a person that slings a gun.”
“How do you know all this?” Gary asked.
“I have good memory and I think a lot. It’s why I do what I do,” gunslinger said, a bit annoyed. “Why’d you come to me, if you’re not gonna believe me?”
Gary wants to hide in a hole somewhere. “Okay, I’m sorry. I… I don’t know. If that’s all true, what should I do? I mean, I don’t even kno–”
Charlie comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel with her hair also wrapped into a turban by another white towel. “Gary, I’m really sorry, but do you have any clothes I can wear?”
Gary notices her flushed cheeks and full pink lips. He quickly looks away, remembering what the gunslinger had said. “Yeah, there should be some of Cheryl’s clothes, left in my bedroom closet.”
“Thanks!” Charlie shuffles like a child in endearing and comical manner to Gary’s bedroom, being careful not to let the towel slip.
The gunslinger sighs. ”I said to not look at people like that, not, not look at them at all.”
Gary fixed his gaze on the TV. Seeing his reflection in the screen. The gunslinger was staring at the ceiling, running the tip of his tongue along his canine tooth again.
Charlie comes out in pajamas adorned with teddy bears, they fit loosely on her petite frame. “I’m going to sleep, guys.”
“I’ll get you guys a pillow and blankets.” Gary gets up to retrieve the items.
The gunslinger grunts in approval as Gary hands him the items. Charlie shoots the gunslinger with a dirty look again.
“We’ll talk more over breakfast,” said the gunslinger, as he positioned himself on the sofa to sleep without giving Charlie a single glance.
They all turn in for the night. Gary stayed awake, staring at the ceiling fan of his bedroom spin about lazily. He felt crazy. Everything was out of control. But in a strange way, he felt strong, as if everything was going to be okay.
Morning came abruptly as Gary awoke to the sound of running water and utensils clanging in the kitchen. Cheryl, she’s back! – He thought. Gary always made breakfast for Cheryl, but one time on his birthday, Cheryl made him breakfast in return. He remembered the sound of running water and pans clanging against each other. Long time ago, his mother used to make the same noise in the morning. He missed the Sunday mornings as a kid, how he laid in his bed, trying to ignore the sun-light urging him to wake up, burying himself under the comforter, as he heard the sound of someone busy at work in the kitchen.
Gary hurried out, fully expecting to see Cheryl wearing aprons and a smile. The kitchen came into view. He saw the gunslinger wearing his shoulder holster. He was trying to scratch his back, struggling over his holster, while frying eggs.
“I’m helping myself to your eggs and bacon,” said the gunslinger, as he scratched his back by using the sharp corner of the fridge, when he noticed Gary.
“Sure… I can’t join you. I have to get ready for work.” Disappointed, Gary headed for the bathroom.
When Gary opened the bathroom door, Charlie flinched and gasped while she was on the toilet. “Oh- sorry!” Gary averted his eyes, about faced, and shut the door.
The gunslinger laughed aloud. “D’you get some fapping material?”
Gary stood, frozen outside the bathroom door, face red, not knowing what to say. Before he turned, he caught a glimpse of the bear pajamas crumpled down against her ankles and the image was etching itself into his mind.
“Careful Ga-ry,” the gunslinger continued, after studying Gary, as he began to eat the plate he fixed for himself on the kitchen counter. “I already told you she’s not dumb.”
“What do you mean?” Gary asked.
“Would you leave the door unlocked when you use the toilet in someone’s house?” The gunslinger questioned in a rhetorical way.
“Why would she?” Gary asked, taking a seat at the dining table.
“I wouldn’t know why. Who can tell what she’s thinking,” the gunslinger continued as he stuffed a whole egg into his mouth. “You’re asking the wrong question. It ain’t important why. The question you should be asking is — what does she want from you… then why does she want it from you”
“I can hear everything, you know!” Charlie cried out from the bathroom.
The gunslinger yells across to the bathroom. “Oh- many apologies mistress! Is your shit going straight back up your ass?”
“I’ll have you know, I am peeing! And I don’t want anything from anybody! I swear I locked the door!” Charlie cried out.
“Whatever you say, ma’am!” The gunslinger yelled back jovially, as he shot a wink at Gary.
The gunslinger proceeds to chomp down on his bacon. “Well, Ga-ry, since you have to get to work, think about this today. A mouse is like a toy to a cat, in reality. The food chain demands that relationship between the two. What would happen if the cat thought a mouse was more than a toy?”
“The mouse might eat the cat?” Gary answered immediately, puzzled at what sounded like non-sense.
“Very good. Now think about what that means,” replied the gunslinger.
Charlie stomps out of the bathroom, brushes by Gary without acknowledgment and confronts the gunslinger.
“How dare you? Who do you think you are!” Charlie demanded.
“I am a gun-for-hire in your service, ma’am,” The gunslinger responded calm and politely.
“You’re no gunslinger. You’re just some nut-job, idiot, living in a dream land!” Charlie pushes her face closer with every insult, right into the gunslinger’s.
The gunslinger’s eyes narrow dangerously, like the first time Gary approached him. The gunslinger squares up to the fragile girl and heavily leans his forehead unto her forehead, peering into her sparkling hazel eyes. “The very same nut-job, idiot, that saved your life and is duped into service in promise of what’s turning out to be a lie!” He growled.
Instead of being intimidated, Charlie slaps him with the intensity of a lightning bolt. She immediately storms out of the kitchen and sits on the sofa with her arms crossed.
The gunslinger looks up to the ceiling and mutters, “God, help me.”
Gary hasn’t felt this uncomfortable, since the last time he witnessed his mom and dad fight when he was six-teen. He didn’t know where to place his gaze. He wants to use the bathroom and get ready for work, but he can’t summon the courage to get up.
Charlie begins to sniffle and dab her eyes with her sleeve. Her lips tremble and her shoulders slightly quake.
“Jesus Christ! Seriously?” The gunslinger rolls his eyes. He takes a moment to examine Charlie from where he stood, bites his lip and says in a tired voice, “well, are you going to have some breakfast?”
Charlie sneers at the gunslinger, her eyes moist with tears.
“I’m going to fix you up a plate, and when you’re ready, you can come over at anytime and eat it.” The gunslinger stated, breaking two more eggs over a frying pan.
“Apologize,” demanded Charlie with her head turned away.
“Don’t push me,” sneered the gunslinger over sizzling eggs.
The gunslinger finishes making a plate for her and sets it down on the dining table right next to Gary. The gunslinger himself takes a seat at the table and leans back on the chair, massaging his canine with his tongue again.
Charlie takes a quick glance to make sure everything was prepared. She goes to the bathroom again to wash her face and sits down at the table.
The gunslinger grinned slyly and said, “Girl, you could be a boxing champion, the way you hit. My face feels like it’s falling apart.” The gunslinger shifts his gaze to Gary.
“You deserved it,” said Charlie, flatly, as she cut the eggs into bite-sized pieces.
“What I deserve is hundred thousand dollars,” the gunslinger glanced at Gary again, then back to Charlie, leaned back into his chair and muttered, “for all this shit I take.”
“You’ll get it!” Charlie looked up from her meal to meet the gunslinger’s gaze, “As promised.” She goes back to organizing her meal. She was even cutting the bacon into pieces and setting it upon pieces of already cut eggs. When she ate, all she would have to do was eat.
“Isn’t that shit freaky?” The gunslinger playfully asked Gary, pointing with his chin at what Charlie was doing with her food.
“Shut-up!” Charlie commanded, while gauging Gary’s reaction with a side glance.
Gary finally got up from the table. “I really have to go.”
“Sure, Ga-ry,” the gunslinger smiled up from his chair. “Think about what mouse eating the cat means.”
With that, Gary got ready for work. As he left his home, Charlie cheerfully waved him good-bye and bade him to hurry back as if the fight did not affect her in any way at all. She was still her bubbly self.
Gary’s spirit was lifted. His step was light and he greeted his coworkers, each with a sincere smile. Watching Charlie and the gunslinger made him forget all about how much he hated himself. He sat in his cubicle, feeling motivated to work. Usually it was dreary to shuffle through logs and paperwork, but today, he felt like he could really get some good work done.
Steve, the supervisor of his department was making his rounds. Making sure no one was slacking off and delegating additional work as necessary. Steve’s glossy red tie glistened under the fluorescent lights.
Steve arrived at Gary’s cubicle. “G’morning, Gary,” his voice ringing clear and loud, “I need you to stay late tonight. Some ass-hole, top-side thinks there was an error in our inventory.”
With that, Gary’s day was ruined. He wanted to go home. Even though he knew there was nothing between Charlie and him, he still wanted to see her bright smile again. It was as if she breathed life back into him. Gary wanted to talk more with the gunslinger. Whether the gunslinger was the real deal or not, Gary never had a conversation like that with anyone, ever. A real conversation. He actually listened to what Gary had to say, and responded without any scorn. Cheryl used to look at him like he was crazy when he spoke his mind to her. She would say, “What’s wrong with you?” or, “Why would you say that?” with, “Are you crazy? How can you not know that?”
The memory of Charlie’s honey thighs, flinching as he entered the bathroom, flashed in his mind. Gary smirked confidently at Steve’s glossy red tie. “Sure thing, Steve. I can have it ready for you within the day actually.”
Steve raised an eyebrow, “Oh- is that right? Everyone’s swamped and you have time to kill – huh?”
Gary felt himself shrink as Steve leered at him.
“If that’s the case, maybe the reason our inventory is fubar is because of you.” Steve accused.
It was unfair. Gary was really trying. All his life, he had been trying. Trying to make his parents happy. Trying to get good grades in school. Trying to make friends by being nice. Trying to make Cheryl smile at him again. Trying so hard to fit in at work. Trying to make small talk at the break lounge. Trying to avoid being out of Steve’s favor. One good thing happens to him in his miserable fucking life, and Steve — FUCKING STEVE — was going to take it away!
Gary suddenly recalled the oddest thing. The gunslinger, scratching his back against the fridge and the way the gun inside his holster dangled, how he threw the whole egg into his mouth and talked with his mouth full, how little chunks of fried eggs sputtered out of his mouth when he did. Odd, because it made Gary numb to what he was about to do.
Gary revolved his chair to squarely face Steve. He straightened his head up, looked Steve in the eye, and calmly and clearly said, “Fuck off, Stee-vo.” Steve’s eyes widened as what Gary said registered in his head. “And you look like a faggot with your red tie.”
Steve’s mouth opened and closed like what a mindless gold-fish does in a bowl all day. Gary remained seated, feeling cool and collected, still gazing straight into Steve’s eyes. Steve grimaced, shook his head at Gary and stormed off.
Gary let out the breath he was holding. He chuckled to himself in delight. For the first time in life, he felt the most strongest sense of pride. He slumped, and just sat there dreamily. Replaying the scene of him telling Steve to fuck off, how Steve looked at him like a fool, how awesome he must have appeared, over and over again in his head. Gary chuckled one last time and confidently went on to check the inventory log on his laptop.
Hours pass as Gary examined where things might have gone wrong. He found the error. Some rookie did not know how to use a spread sheet, and logged the recent shipment out of chronological order. An easy fix, no reason to stay late.
“Gary Fairchild,” the loudspeaker rang throughout the office. “See me in my office.”
All the pencil pushers and paper jockeys peeked over their cubicle to see Gary stroll into the head manager’s office.
The head manager was a gentleman in his 60′s. The word ‘gentleman’ suited him, because he smoked cigars in his office, wore a vest with his suit, and sported a magnificent beard. He looked like what Gary imagined an owner of a Southern tobacco plantation would have looked like.
Gary saw Steve in the room as he entered. Without hesitation he greeted the head manager. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hannigan.” Then nodded at Steve. “Steve.”
“Please,” Hannigan said. “Take a seat, son.” Gary sat as he was told. “Do you know why you’re here?” Hannigan asked.
“I do,” Gary said relishing in his cool. “I’m here to explain two things. The error in the inventory and why I told Steve to fuck off.”
Hannigan peered into Gary, slightly amused, and Gary met his gaze without wavering. “Go on, son.” Hannigan said.
“The error in the inventory was an easy fix. Someone did not know how our company organizes our inventory, and logged it out of order. It is fixed and back up in our cloud-net.” Gary explained. It was like Gary was outside his body, looking at himself from the ceiling. He had never felt this strong in his life.
Steve impatiently butts in and says, “Tell Mr. Hannigan what you said!”
Gary took a moment to cooly study Steve, enjoying Mr. Hotshot-red-tie showing his ass by losing his cool in front of the Big Dog.
“Steve accused me of slacking off,” Gary explained confidently. “And I said, ‘Fuck off, Stee-vo. And you look like a faggot with your red tie’.” As he quoted himself, Gary squared up to Steve again and did it exactly as he said it before.
Hannigan stifled a laughter, but soon began to chuckle loudly. As Hannigan noticed the hurt, from betrayal, on Steve’s face, Hannigan’s chuckle became a roaring laughter. “Your tie is goddamn heinous, son. Where do you think you are? A dinner show in Vegas?” Hannigan said, gasping and snorting in laughter.
“Mark!” Steve whined and Hannigan’s laughter stopped abruptly as he heard Steve call him by his first name.
“Listen here, boy,” Hannigan scowled, his eyes glistening without any trace of his earlier mirth. “Just because Amanda can’t see the lily picking punk that you are — don’t think I’ll condone you over stepping your boundaries at work. If you were in my platoon, back in ‘Nam, I’d leave your sissy ass for the gooks to fill you full of your own blood and their cum from throat to ass!”
Both Steve and Gary stared at Hannigan with their mouth hanging open, astounded.
“Now, get out of my office, boy,” Hannigan held a finger up at Gary, while he still leered at Steve. “I need to have a talk with this man.”
Steve trudged out like a whipped dog, as he shut the door behind him, Hannigan muttered, “That boy needs to stop thinking he knows what he think he knows.”
“Now, Mr. Fairchild,” Hannigan addressed Gary. “You understand I can’t have you two butting heads all the time.”
Gary stiffened. What he had anticipated was coming. Gary took a deep breath. “I do, sir.”
“That boy is green,” Hannigan mused, as he offered Gary a cigar from his stash. “But he’s family. A man my daughter chose to be her husband…”
Gary took a cigar and said, “Thank you.” He waited for his sentence, resigned to his fate. He took the cigar to his mouth. He had quit smoking when Cheryl said it was, disgusting. It felt like a good time to start again. Gary never had cigars before and it felt like a great time to smoke one too. He did not feel as panicked as he imagined.
As Hannigan revealed his relation to Steve, he examined Gary. Gary steadily met the man’s gaze, examining Hannigan, as Hannigan examined him. Hannigan had intense green eyes and his neatly trimmed, but full mustache with a beard hid whatever expression he had under it. The man’s suit was neatly pressed without a single strand of string hanging out at the seams.
Hannigan tossed Gary a banged up, faded brown, Zippo-lighter. It had a barely visible worn etching of an eagle perched up on a globe with an anchor behind it. Gary caught it without batting an eye and lit up his cigar. As he puffed to get the burning going, he set the lighter back on the middle of Hannigan’s desk. Then as he pulled back into his seat, he glanced up to Hannigan and said, “Thank you, sir.”
Hannigan leaned back in his chair and lit up his own cigar. ”I need you out of here at the end of this month,” said Hannigan.
Gary furrowed his brows, puffed his cigar one more time, and got up from his chair as he pressed the cigar out on Hannigan’s ashtray. Trail of smoke curled out of his mouth and dissipated in a haze above his head. At least he was going out in style.
“To relocate to Arizona,” Hannigan said, his intense green eyes crinkling a bit in amusement. “A manager position opened up at our Northern Arizona branch and I’m thinking you’d be the man for the job.”
Gary inhaled the left over smoke and it went down the wrong pipe. He hacked and coughed, bent over Hannigan’s desk.
Hannigan chuckled. “You alright, son?”
“Fine sir,” Gary croaked. “Good cigar.”
“It’s one of the best,” Hannigan claimed, his full grey mustache widening into what might be a grin. “Take it with you, and I’ll have Steve send you the details about the job.”
“Thank you sir.” Gary picked up his cigar and headed out the door.
The paper monkeys all peeked over their cubicles again as Gary came out of the office. He put the cigar back in his mouth and strolled back to his work station.
He sat, in a daze. This must all be a dream, he thought. He pinched his cheek to see if he was dreaming. If it was a dream it would not hurt. It neither hurt nor not hurt. He chuckled to himself. “If it is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”
Gary wanted to share this with his new friends, the gunslinger and Charlie. Closest thing to real friends he has ever had, even though it hasn’t even been 24 hours since they have met.
He hurried home in the evening, going over how he was going to tell his story to them as he drove.
Gary burst the door to his apartment open, full of energy and glee. “Hey guys! You wouldn’t believe wha-.” He stopped himself short, noticing that no one was in his quiet apartment. It was as if no one had been here in the first place.
Gary felt rage well up inside him. He turned and looked for their beat-down truck in the parking lot. It was gone. Maybe it was never here in the first place. As he stepped in and closed the door to his apartment, rage materialized into tears. Gary grabbed a vase, the clay vase he made for Cheryl when they were still dating. He threw it down on the floor and it shattered, making a dull cracking noise. It was not enough. He grabbed the stand, the stand that used to support the vase and chucked it across the living room. The ruckus caused by it was satisfying.
Gary trudged to the sofa, suddenly feeling tired and sleepy. He imagined, at any moment, the odd couple would come through his front door arguing. The gunslinger would nod at him and Charlie would welcome him home with her bright smile.
No such thing happened.
“It must have been a dream,” Gary muttered to himself. “A gunslinger? Really?”
Gary fell asleep on the sofa. The vase lay shattered and the stand lay with one of its legs broken.
“Holy shit! What the shit happened here?” The gunslinger exclaimed softly as he drew his weapon when he entered Gary’s apartment.
“Is- is he dead?” Charlie asked, pointing at Gary’s still form on the sofa, her voice trembling with concern and fear.
The gunslinger crouched low and sneaked to Gary’s body while he scanned the apartment, fully alert. The gunslinger checked Gary. “He’s okay,” he whispered to Charlie over his shoulder. Then went on to check the other rooms.
Charlie shook Gary’s shoulder, and whispered desperately, “Gary, wake up! Wake up!”
Gary groaned. “Che– Cheryl, I –.” He pulled and embraced Charlie, burying her head into his chest.
The gunslinger came out of the last room he checked. His gun was holstered and he looked peeved. He sees Charlie’s head buried in Gary’s embrace and cocks an eye brow.
The gunslinger leans into Gary and yells, “Wake-up!” — right into Gary’s ear.
Gary sputtered to life, eyes wide and crushing Charlie with his embrace in surprise. Charlie squeals and pushes him away.
“You’re in my spot.” The gunslinger growled.
Charlie straightens her ruffled golden locks with her fingers. “What happened here, Gary?”
“Huh?” Gary stood up as the gunslinger plopped himself on the couch.
Gary spotted the mess he had made. “Oh – that… I did that.”
“Why?” Charlie asked, surprised.
“I– I thought I had a dream.” Gary hesitantly replied.
“What kind of dream?” Charlie pressed.
“… That you guys weren’t real.” Gary said, looking away.
A long silent pause. The gunslinger snorted into laughter and began to snicker.
“Wha-?” Charlie giggled. “Of course we’re real!” She tips her head at the gunslinger while smiling at Gary. Her hazel eyes glittered like diamond dust when they crinkled in laughter. “I wouldn’t think a gunslinger who can’t drive stick is real either.”
“We got lost Ga-ry,” the gunslinger said, as he turned on the TV. “Thanks to the dumb blonde. I didn’t think they were real either.”
“Oh wow! A blonde joke! How original. I’ve never heard that one before. Cheers to you sir, for being the biggest tool-bag ever!” Charlie jeered.
Gary smiled. Everything was as it should be.
“It doesn’t matter. Welcome back. Where did you guys go?” Gary asked, feeling giddy again.
“Groceries,” Charlie beamed, pointing at the bags she dropped by the doorway when she thought Gary was dead. “I’m making mama’s honey fried chicken!”
With that, Charlie gathered the groceries and went to work in the kitchen. Gary picked up the mess he made, pushed it to a corner, and sat next to the gunslinger, who was watching cartoons.
“Do you like cartoons?” Gary asked, thinking it was odd.
The gunslinger gives him a funny look and goes back to watching Tom & Jerry without a word. Gary sheepishly sat there and watched it with him. Few moments later, the gunslinger responded.
“Fictions have more truth in them, especially cartoons,” the gunslinger said, watching Jerry trick Tom into hurting itself. “People tend to be brutally honest about what they are, when they claim to be lying. It’s useful in my line of work to know what people are.”
“Then the ones who claim to tell the truth — are they lying?” Gary questioned after thinking through what the gunslinger had said.
“No, it’s not that simple,” the gunslinger answered. “When people are telling the truth, look for what they are lying about. When people are lying, look for what they are telling the truth about. It’s easier to spot the truth, than a lie. That’s why, to people who know this, liars are the biggest suckers in this world. They think they are being clever, but are actually broadcasting what they are to everyone… Then again, some people like liars, because it makes them easy to control. Makes them less insecure, knowing they have a leg up on the poor bastard. Honest people? You have to be very careful around those. Who knows what they are thinking. They are down right scary to some. It’s irony at its best when liars are easier to read than the honest ones.”
“Which one are you?” Gary asked, eyes gleaming with interest.
The gunslinger chuckles, his eyes crinkling and his lips parting into a wide grin, “Which one do I look like to you?”
Gary grinned back, then grimaced, as he realized he might have been a liar, and remembered Cheryl. “Okay, then what about Cheryl?”
“What about Cheryl?” The gunslinger asked back.
“Did she think I was a liar? Did she think she had a ‘leg up’ on me? Would she have not left me if I was honest?” Gary went on.
“I only know what I think, Ga-ry,” the gunslinger said blankly, “I’d have to see the lady myself to take a shot at what she thinks, but from what I’ve heard, you’re not even in love with her, so what does it matter?”
“What?” Gary’s face went rigid. He was baffled and offended. What would this man know about how he felt about her?
“Why would you say that? How would you know what I felt? I loved her! I can’t stop thinking about her!” Gary snapped.
The gunslinger picks his nose and studies his findings on the finger as Gary glares. “There’s no need to get upset, Ga-ry. When people say they ‘love’ someone, they usually mean they love themselves loving that someone. From what you’ve told me, even though you were the one always trying to please her, you got more out of it, and she got nothing out of you.”
What the gunslinger said about love struck Gary like a spear to the throat. It was true, because it hurt. It hurt to be judged useless to someone.
“Is the world really that cold? Calculating? Give and take?” Gary despaired.
“Don’t be a damn child! Who told you it wasn’t suppose’ to be? Even Charlie over there knows this. She thrives in it.” The gunslinger pointed to Charlie, who was busy clanging pans about in the kitchen, shuffling back and forth from the fridge, the counter, then to the oven. Totally oblivious to the conversation.
“Should I learn to do pick-up then? I read this book once, and it sounds similar.” Gary suggested.
The gunslinger slapped his knee and laughed aloud. “Pick-up? Is that what you think is going to work for you? A man in woman’s disguise? If that’s the case, you should ask Charlie for advice. She’s a genius in the feminine arts.”
“Wh- what do you mean?” Gary fumbled. “I hear a lot of good things about it. Alpha male and stuff. How I need to show dominance. Show high value. They make sense. Isn’t that suppose’ to be manly?”
“Sure, if you’re into closet lesbians, or you think so little of yourself, that you have to have someone love you for something you’re not and don’t want to be,” the gunslinger continued. “Mind games are feminine by nature, Ga-ry. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a useful skill to have in your back pocket, but if you have any real value, people flock to you, even when you don’t want them to. In other words, it’s not up to you, whether people love you or not. Any attempt to influence that — which can be done — is a feminine art. The way I see it, Ga-ry, you don’t have what it takes to be a woman. You’re lacking luscious teats for one… you lack showmanship, and you lack subtlety.”
The gunslinger points at Tom, getting suckered by Jerry again. “You see that cat? That’s masculine. Protecting what’s his. Fuck shit up and never give up. To the point of retardation — insanity!” The gunslinger’s eyes glossed over as if he was in a different world.
“Women? They get weak in the knees, just thinking about someone like that!” The gunslinger claimed.
“What kind of advice is that?” Charlie scoffed from the kitchen counter. “That’s stupid!”
The gunslinger ignored her and kept on. “When a girl like that tells you, you’re stupid, you’re on the right track.”
“What’s that suppose’ to mean? A girl like what?” Charlie demanded.
“Smart and beautiful, of course,” said the gunslinger, beaming a smile at her.
“You forgot kind.” Charlie added, grinning.
“…and kind.” The gunslinger agreed with a nod.
“It’ll be ready in a bit.” Charlie stated, still grinning, and took a seat next to Gary.
“Well, isn’t this cozy. One, big, happy family, watching cartoons,” the gunslinger observed.
“What were you guys talking about?” Charlie probed.
“Maybe you can talk some sense into Gary,” the gunslinger insisted, as he sent his gaze towards the ceiling in exasperation. “He thinks learning pick-up is going to bring Cheryl back.”
Charlie shot a glare at the gunslinger. “Gary,” she softly said, as she placed a hand on Gary’s forearm. “Cheryl’s not coming back.” She paused to study Gary’s expression. “No matter what you do, she’s not coming back. She wasn’t for you.”
Gary shrugged off Charlie’s hand and said nothing.
Few moments later, Gary opened his mouth. “I know,” Gary admitted. “… I just wish I could take it all back. I was such a loser.”
Charlie frowned, saying nothing. The gunslinger broke the silence. “That’s your opportunity, Ga-ry,” the gunslinger confidently said. “That’s where the line between a boy and a man is.”
Both Charlie and Gary looked at the gunslinger, waiting for him to continue.
The gunslinger met each one’s eyes and said, “It’s about taking the hits. As long as the world is beating on you, it means you didn’t lose yet. Boys want it to stop, men want it to never end. You’re a fighter, not a lover, Ga-ry. Get back up and ask the world if that’s all they got. If it is, you win.”
Gary stood up, fists clenched. Without a word he headed for the door.
“Whoa! Where you going?” Charlie asked.
Gary stopped short of the door. “I’m going to see Cheryl,” he answered, without turning to face her.
“What? No! Don’t do that!” Charlie warned.
“That’s not what I meant Ga-ry.” The gunslinger warned.
“I have to.” With that, Gary headed out the door and got into his car.
Charlie and the gunslinger exchanged looks, then hurried to their truck to follow Gary.
When Gary arrived at Cheryl’s, Charlie and the gunslinger parked nearby and hid behind a bush to see Gary ringing the door bell.
“Gary?” Cheryl was confused at first, then a look of disgust came over her porcelain face. “Why are you doing this, Gary? That was you the other night too, wasn’t it?”
Gary just stood there. He knew he had to be here, but he had nothing to say. He searched for something to say.
“Che-,” Gary began, but a burly man, easily a head taller than Gary, appeared from behind Cheryl with his shirt off.
“Is everything okay, babe?” The man asked rhetorically as he stepped out and placed himself between Gary and Cheryl. The man, sized Gary up, then rhetorically asked again, “This guy giving you trouble?”
“Aw, shit,” the gunslinger whispered from behind the bush. He pulled out his gun and handed it to Charlie. “Hold this.”
The gunslinger, without his gun, now just a –slinger, approached the scene as the man shoved Gary straight down into the pavement and threatened him. “Beat it, loser.”
The gunslinger grabbed Gary under a shoulder and helped him up.
“Who the fuck are you suppose’ to be?” The burly man demanded, squaring up to the gunslinger. The gunslinger wasn’t a big man himself. He was of average size, even somewhat lithe. The man loomed over the gunslinger, also easily a head taller.
The gunslinger reaches up, grabs the man’s curly brown locks and pulls him down to his level in one fluid motion. “What did you call me?” The gunslinger hissed into the bowed man’s ear. Cheryl gasped and inched behind the door frame.
Gary grabs the gunslinger’s wrist and tries to pry off the grip he has on the man’s hair. His fingers were surprisingly hard and solid, each like a rod of steel. Gary pried with all his might and it would not budge. The burly man was also trying to pry the arm off, but he was at the gunslinger’s mercy.
“What the hell are you doing Gary?” The gunslinger asked, cocking an eyebrow, and loosened the grip on the burly man. The man pulled free from the grasp, minus some hairs, and fumed like a bull about to go on a rampage.
Gary pushes the gunslinger away, and the gunslinger stumbles back, bewildered. “I don’t need your help! I got this.” Gary snapped at the gunslinger.
Gary turns right back around and socks the fuming bull, square in the nose. The Bull makes a confused face. Then grins menacingly. The beating ensues. The Bull, grabs Gary by the shoulder and punches him again and again. It is like watching a hammer pound a nail in. With each hit, Gary buckles lower to the ground. Gary holds on to the arm that is holding his shoulder, and in a punch drunken daze, kicks and claws, on his way down, all the way down. The Bull mounts him and begins to wail on Gary.
The gunslinger just watched, with his arms crossed, leaning against a fence post.
Gary punches back, weakly. But soon, Gary is too busy covering his head to lessen the blows. The Bull keeps pounding and Gary’s head bounces up and down off the pavement. Gary’s arms fall limp to the side, too tired to even block.
The Bull gets up and spits on Gary’s face. Gary chokes and coughs. His face is a mess of tears and blood. His eyes are already swollen and his lower lip is in two pieces, a small chunk of it dangling by a thread of flesh off his mouth.
Gary rolls over, trying to stand, but for the life of him, he can’t get his elbows off the ground. He sputters and drools blood, coughing. One single thought screams in his head, over and over again, STOP! STOP! STOP!
The Bull squared up to the gunslinger again, this time a bit tentatively, “You want some too?” The gunslinger shook his head and pointed with his chin at the Bull’s feet.
Gary had crawled to the Bull with all he had left. He wraps himself around the Bull’s leg. “What the fuck!” The Bull scowls. In his attempt to shrug Gary off, Bull loses his balance and falls on his ass. Only thing Gary can do is hold him. The Bull stomps Gary’s head while on his ass.
The gunslinger couldn’t even tell what Gary looked like anymore. Gary’s face was just a swollen sack of meat. He couldn’t even tell if Gary was still conscious. Regardless, Gary would not let go of the Bull’s leg.
Panic and fear oozes into the Bull’s eyes. Suddenly, Gary opens his swollen mouth, and bites down — hard — right into the Bull’s ankle.
“Aghhhh!” The Bull screamed. “You crazy fuck! You crazy fuck! You bit me!” The Bull scrambles back up and away from Gary.
Gary, still lying prone on the floor, still crawling towards the Bull, grunts in ragged breaths. “… Da… aw .. woo ga? … Dah –aw — hoov ga? Dah — aw — hyoo — gah!”
That all you got?
“Holy shit…” The gunslinger muttered, amazed.
“Stop it! Right now! I’m calling the police!” Cheryl threatened as she pushed the Bull back inside her apartment.
Gary keeps crawling towards where he thinks the Bull is. Charlie comes out of hiding and rushes over to Gary and hugs him to a halt. ”Dear God, baby. What are you doing? I told you! Forget about her. You’re mine. I love you!”
“No need, ma’am. We’re leaving.” The gunslinger said to Cheryl, as he peeled Gary off the floor.
The gunslinger helped Gary into the passenger seat of his car and hurried into the driver seat himself. Charlie gave Gary a light kiss on his bloody cheek, shut the door, then went to the truck to follow them home.
As they drove home, Gary began to sob. “A– koon s–an uh. A– koon s–an uh… A– koon–.”
I couldn’t stand up…
“Shut the fuck up Gary,” the gunslinger scorned. Then he ecstatically declared, “You’re a goddamn hero! Jesus Christ, a goddamn hero! Everyone fuckin’ heard you!”
They arrive at Gary’s. The gunslinger and Charlie each take his arm and lay him on his bed. Charlie finds a first aid kit in the bathroom, soaks a Q-tip with alcohol and began to clean Gary’s wounds. Gary flinched in pain.
“I guess he won’t be having any chicken tonight,” the gunslinger observed as Charlie snipped the small chunk of lip off Gary’s mouth.
“Tank woo,” Gary said to the gunslinger. “I — nevuh… fight…I phil grate. Dis i– who I am.”
“Shhh,” Charlie cooed, “Hush.” She had the wounds cleaned, and began to apply band-aids on the cuts.
“I guess I’m just gonna have to tell you the answer, ” the gunslinger said. “Whoever that ends up eating, is the cat. Whoever that ends up eaten, is the mouse. The food chain demands it. Anything else would be unnatural and unjust.”
“… I noe,” Gary said, his black and blue face twitching into a smile. “Yoo woon belee– wha happen to — me toda — at — wulk… wha– a crasy day…”
What a crazy day.
Exhausted, Gary trails off to sleep without recounting his adventure at work.
The gunslinger and Charlie, close Gary’s bedroom door and sit at the dining table.
“So… you love him?” The gunslinger asked Charlie with a bemused look on his face.
Charlie imitates the bemused look right back at the gunslinger and says, “You think you know so much, but you sure don’t know much about women.”
The gunslinger rolls his eyes. “Whatever, where’s my gun?” The gunslinger asked, suddenly noticing how empty he felt.
“In the truck,” Charlie answered as she tipped her head towards the door.
“Goddamnit, Charlie!” The gunslinger cursed. “That’s my life! I told you to hold it!”
The gunslinger hurries outside to retrieve his gun.
“Shouldn’t put your life in other people’s hands, nun-slinger!” She yelled out, but the gunslinger was already out the door before she finished.
The gunslinger comes back irritated, sits back down at the table and examines his gun to make sure everything was as it should be.
“We need to go,” the gunslinger stated, still examining his piece. “My contract is up.”
Charlie said nothing and just nodded.
“How’d you help him?” Charlie asked instead.
“I didn’t,” the gunslinger grinned. “He was ready to help himself. With or without me, he would have figured it out. We just happened to be here to see it happen.”
Gary woke up in the morning, feeling refreshed, but his face felt like it was on fire. He was worried how he would explain his face at work, but realized today was Saturday.
He checked his cell phone. There was a text from Cheryl.
Are you alright? Can I come see you?
Gary put the phone back down without a reply. It wasn’t anything important.
He dragged his aching body out of his bed and went to the bathroom. He saw his face in the mirror. He looked like shit. Not just any shit, but holy shit. Like God squatted on his face and took a shit right on it.
He came out of the bathroom to see a batch of ‘mama’s honey fried chicken’ on the dining table with a note attached to it.
Congratulations Gary, you are so hot! You really don’t need that big nosed bitch! – Charlie
Fuck shit up! Never give up! Watch the ladies legs open up! – X <- Idiot!!!
Gary smiled as he read the good-bye note. It hurt to smile, but it felt good. He picked up a drumstick from the batch and went out the door. The sun blinded him a bit as he came outside. The fresh air felt good on his bruised face. It was good to be alive.
Gary gnawed on Charlie’s honey fried chicken as best he could manage with an aching jaw. The only proof they were ever here.
I sit up, breathing heavy with anticipation. I needed a mirror, and into the bathroom I went.
Studying my features in the mirror, I make faces of what I imagine a gunslinger would make. The rebellious scowl, the arrogant smirk, the squint — the squint did not look right. I place a tooth-brush in the corner of my mouth and hold it between my teeth like a cigar. Thinking of Clint Eastwood in “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly”, I squint.
‘Guy who forgot how to brush his teeth’.jpg
“Pfft.” The toothbrush falls in the basin as I snort with laughter at my reflection.
Expressions are real, only when it comes from the inside. What really matters here is my skill in gun slinging.
I get on the computer and do some searches on Google, and find military field manuals available for download. Apparently, the military had manuals for everything a person might ever need. Subjects ranged from intelligence warfare, survival, and combat tactics to… “Spelling for Marines”?
I conjure up an image of a Marine using “Spelling for Marines” to wipe the blood off his dress blues after slaying a fire-breathing dragon by bashing it to death with the very same book rolled into a makeshift club.
Pretty useful.
Focusing back on purpose, I download subjects of interest. Outdoor survival, escape and evasion, counter intelligence, urban and field combat, hand to hand combat, marksmanship principles, reconnaissance tactics, physical fitness, and anything else I might find useful, I save it on my computer.
Historical scholars, artists, and scientists would be so jealous of the internet, if they knew about it. Socrates would hang out on Facebook all day, visiting every profile and asking frustrating questions about life to them, successfully getting his account blocked or ignored.
Shakespeare would post his plays on Youtube and get comments like, “y dont u peeple say proper english? america fuck yah!!!!!!!!!!”
Darwin will be a public enemy to all religious extremists and receive malicious tweets condemning him to hell, not caring or knowing about the fact that Darwin is a man of faith…
They would still find it wonderful though. All manner of human knowledge at the command of their fingertips? Yeah.
One of the files is done downloading, and I stop my musings to skim through the text.
It was not fun to read, ‘manuals’ never are. I was going to need a lot of time to understand all the stuff I downloaded.
Time flies. The night has passed, and the sun has risen. It is ‘high noon’. I stop my reading. I have to go to work.
I get dressed, get in my car, and decide to go to a western clothing shop instead.
Fuck work.
As I neared the store, marked only with giant cowboy boots next to its door, I doubt and think about calling work to at least tell Mitch, my supervisor, that I’m not coming in today. What I was doing was irresponsible. I have a contract agreement with my employer, I work, they pay. This is unacceptable behavior, unprofessional, and immature. Abnormal.
Million fingers of shame place their digits on my shoulders, forcing my chest to fall. Loneliness punctures my stomach like a javelin, slightly buckling my knees.
This world is irresponsible.
Peeved at my weak resolve, I reinforce my determination with anger and open the portal to latest gunslinger fashion.
The portal chimes happily, welcoming me in. Pungent aroma of leather wafts up my nose, lingers there, and tickles the bottom of my eyes.
I wonder into an aisle with shelves full of cowboy boots neatly stacked and aligned by style. Some were scaled, some were too colorful, and the ones with pointy toes were too flamboyant for my taste.
I come across a pair of black boots that looked much like modern-day work boots. Other than the toes being rounded, it had all the features of a cowboy boot. That was me. I check the size and take it off the shelf.
I turn the corner at the end to enter an aisle lined with various dusters and jackets hanging on coat racks. I tried on a duster and realized they looked awkward and tacky like a Halloween costume.
A brown jacket, the color of mud, made out of suede caught my eye. It looked like something Fonzie would wear. I check the size and take it off the rack.
Last thing on the list was the cowboy hat.
I looked silly in it and decided not to get it.
The owner, a heavy-set man with a pot belly, rugged face and combed hair, raises an eyebrow as he sees me walk up to the counter. I must not look like any of his regular costumers.
“Your first boots?” He does not wait for an answer. “These are good boots, it’ll last you a long time. Now, it’s gonna feel loose at the heel, but when you wear it enough, it’ll mold to your feet and they’ll be the most comfortable pair of boots you’re gonna ever own.”
I pay the man, thank him for the advice, and hurry into my car. Grinning to myself, I check the contents of my recent buy in privacy. The leather jacket and cowboy boots, they are mine. I am a step closer to my goal.
Since I was ditching work to shop for gunslinger gear anyways, I check my smart phone to find the nearest gun store. Technology has made everything so easy.
I take note of the directions and drive to the site. The store was called American Guns and on the entire face of the building was a mural of a bald eagle, soaring across the American flag.
I buy a .45 cal 1911, I think I saw the model used in a movie once. I buy a shoulder holster, the ones detectives wear in TV shows. I buy, two boxes of ammo, a cleaning kit, magazine pouches that strap on to the shoulder holster, and extra magazines. I sign my name on some order forms and applications. The cashier tells me to come back in two days with the receipt of sale.
I come back to the store as instructed and voilà I had a gun. I had everything I needed. Only thing left to do was to train.
During the two days of wait, Mitch, my supervisor at work called. He said my behavior was unacceptable, he was going to ‘let me go’, and mail me the check for the days already worked. I had stopped going to school. For what I had in mind, it was a waste of time. I was sorry to see the tuition wasted, but I had more important things to do now.
I budget what is left in my checking account. I cut my internet and my phone, I don’t need them anymore. I had enough to last three months.
For three months, every single day, two sessions of physical training, two sessions of weapons manipulation, reading the manuals and experimenting what I read.
At times I felt crazy. I found myself asking, “What the hell am I doing?” But it was too late. I had thrown everything away and if I wanted to, I could piece back up the remains, but for what? So I can go back to talking to my fridge?
Whenever doubt squirmed its way into my head, I just stopped thinking. I cleared my head of all thoughts and simply refused to think. It helped me concentrate on my training. Months quickly passed in such a way.
As I planned, I had trained for three months without rest, I was out of money and today was the day of departure .
I dress up in my gunslinger apparel. As I leave the apartment, I stop and place my hand on the only thing of value I own, the only thing that had been my trusty companion for years, my computer.
“Good bye, old friend.” I push and hold the power button and the computer stops its soft humming. It goes dark. It goes still. Trying to shake off the feeling of killing a loyal friend, I turn to make my exit.
I step out to see the melting snow. It is Spring. The air is still a bit chilly.
Without any hesitation, I get in my car and pull out of the parking lot. Without a destination, letting the roads take me where they will, I drive away from everything familiar.
Good bye, gas station — where I always bought cigarettes at.
Good bye, Target — where I bought inks for my printer.
Good bye, grocery store — where I bought food to stock my fridge.
Good bye, strangers — who walk your dogs, jog, and go on about your business.
I’m leaving to find better strangers.
Good bye.
I had fallen asleep on the sofa. In the morning, I quietly sat up, glanced at the surreal rays of sunlight piercing through the small gaps of my vertical blinds, and noticed something was different.
I won.
My resolve to accept emptiness was firm. I had triumphed over loneliness — crushed its skull under my boot-heel. The pain of not being good enough was nothing but a mere phantom. The border between fact and fiction faded and disappeared. Doubts fell away in chunks. I have accepted emptiness. Nothing mattered enough to upset me and nothing mattered enough to make me happy. It was serene. Death must feel the same. I did not exist, instead everything existed in me. God was here, and I was It.
I won. I forgot why it was important to win. My mind anchored in quiet bliss, refused to wonder. So I left the reason forgotten.
Unaffected by the revelation, I get ready for school.
It was the first day of the fall semester. I used to dread first-days because everyone had to introduce themselves and even though I coveted acknowledgment I would mentally fall apart when I received it. I would blush, stutter, mispronounce words — I hated mispronouncing words, then I would sit back down, flustered and angry at myself. It was even worse when someone would encourage me out of pity, then I really felt like jumping off a cliff.
I thought about skipping first days, but then I would have to live with my cowardice. No one would know or care, but I would know and care. So even though I failed again and again, I kept throwing myself at it, hoping I will get it one day. I do not think I got it, but that mattered little now.
I arrive and enter the class. I anticipate anxiety to swarm out of my pores as usual, but it never comes. I see familiar faces, they do not see me. I recognize them, but I do not see recognition in their eyes. I catch myself before I could fall back into my old patterns of begging for recognition. As I have promised myself, I began to look through it all. Then I felt relieved and grateful how they did not recognize and greet me. Is there really anything any of us should talk to each other about anyways?
“Is this seat taken?” I ask as I approach a group of students awkwardly making small talk with each other at a round table.
A tall, obese girl promptly tells me, “No.” She is a life-sized replica of Jabba the Hutt, minus the ruthless, galactic underworld king-pin persona.
She beams a huge smile as I sit down. Without another word, I open up my notebook and begin to doodle.
The class starts and the teacher clears her throat. After a brief pause, she explains the value of networking and kicks off the introduction. I keep doodling. My turn comes and I stand up — absentmindedly say my name and sit back down to continue my withdrawal in the guise of artistic endeavor.
There is a silence, a stillness, and I feel the puzzled gaze of thirty some eyes crawling up and down my body. The plan was to not draw attention.
I cautiously stand back up, panning through all the curious faces examining my every move, and with stoic simplicity, I continue and finish the introduction with, “It’s nice to meet you all.” I sit back down satisfied.
The teacher flashes a smile, eyes crinkling and teeth showing in display of acceptance. I detect a hint of fear in her smile. “So, what do you do?” She asks.
“Nothing.” I blurt out in a matter-of-fact way. The class erupts in laughter. I don’t understand what is so funny. I direct my gaze to an oddly feminine Asian guy sitting next to me. He catches my eye and the meaning with it. He hurries up to introduce himself before the teacher could ask another question.
First lesson was about networking. The teacher devoted two hours into the subject and to my understanding, it could all be said in two sentences. Care about people — if you cannot, act like you care. Then each party uses each other for mutual benefit.
I glance up to see Jabba, smiling at me like a kid in a toy factory, “I like your drawing.” She compliments, cheeks flushing as I look at her blankly. I look back at my drawing. I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.
“Thanks.” I say.
“I like your handwriting.” Feminine Asian guy adds.
I look at my writing. They are your standard block letters. What is with these people? Is this their attempt at networking?
I look at his spiked up hair and say, “I like your hair.”
He smiles in response, cheeks flushing like Jabba’s.
Staying invisible was not going too well. More I tried being indifferent, more people became interested. It did not apply to everyone, there were certain type of people who get attracted to indifference. They fling themselves into the void, hoping for… I don’t know, acceptance? Approval? They see the emptiness and think they can plant their roots in it. A menial display of tolerance, and I could give them that illusion. Do they not see how unjust that is? Being led on by the tricks their own mind plays on them? What is it all for?
Maybe it is shame. They feel shame in their life and prefer non-judgmental indifference over turbulent and passionate connections. Much like how Maggie in, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” fawned over Brick or how some people prefer the company of animals over humans.
Maybe this is all a fantasy and they merely get interested in the same way I look at other people when they are not looking.
Too many assumptions without basis. With all these doubts, how can I trust myself? How can I ever trust others?
It does not matter, I tell myself, remembering the resolve to stop judging and measuring. Let it be. If you do not like one or the other, then make up what you like. No one can stop you.
I think of the redhead. They want warmth, like the redhead. Everyone deserves warmth. They want the heat of another body next to them, hear the slurping of bowel movements, and feel the pulsing of veins synchronize with their own. This is my conviction.
The class ends and I stay a minute longer to hurry and finish up the drawing.
As I make my way towards the parking lot, I see Jabba embracing a gangly guy. He looks just like Han Solo. Jabba the Hutt and Han Solo — kiss, hug once more, and go their ways.
Despite my resolve to be indifferent, I find myself surprisingly jealous over the affectionate scene.
Warmth — I want it too.
Weeks pass, and with each passing day, my sense of self and reality faded more and more. Dreams mixed with memories. I would remember events in the past and think it was a dream or have a dream and believe it really happened. It did not bother me — not at all. I would die like this — lost in layers of illusions upon illusions.
Another evening of solitude, I lie in my bed, the girl in the bright room does not come to talk anymore.
Lost in emptiness, a memory bolted through my mind like lightning. It was a long-forgotten memory. Never recalled once.
An old cartoon of an old knight with a grey handlebar mustache, wearing a set of rusted armor, falling off his frail horse, into the gutter.
His stubby squire looking on worriedly as the knight valiantly charges a windmill, determined to skewer it with his rusted lance for demented reasons.
I open my eyes to see the darkened ceiling of my bedroom. What I see is a blank canvas of nothingness, waiting for a magnificent masterpiece to take residence.
First came the memory of a hero. Next came the awareness of potential. Now comes the idea, in the visual form of a vintage photo. Cowboy hat and cowboy boots, a leather coat, and a gun — a symbol of American spirit and individuality, the gunslinger.
I reconsider my resolution of indifference. Blissful death is a promise from God. It is a betrayal of trust to enjoy death, when I have not earned it yet by living. If dying is to have all things exist in me, then living is to have me exist in all things.
Thus with a single thought,
I live.
