Damn. Gutshot.

I didn’t think he’d have the balls. I was sure he was just flashing the piece, making himself feel like a big man. Shows you what I know.

Bleeding bad. I can still move my legs, but it makes all the muscles hurt.

The flash, and then like a punch in the stomach. Everything inside me all turned to blood. Motherfucker. I didn’t think he’d have the balls.

I gotta get me a gun. I’ll cap his bullshit ass.

I gotta get me to a hospital, I guess.

I’m cold. Maybe I’ll rest here for a little bit.

Some smarty always flapping his gums about how there are bodies in the lake, how on a spring day just after the ice melts you can dive down and see ’em in the dead trees below the surface, skeletons wrapped in rotten cloth, trapped in the branches, waving like they’re still alive and want to be rescued. Hell, kids sometimes say bones wash up on the beach in the height of the summer season. One kid said a skull, but he wouldn’t show it to anyone.

Kids go missing every year in towns all over. This place is no different.

The city at night. Junkies, whores, a third shift worker done with the factory and looking for eggs and bacon to line his belly so he can curl into backwards sleep, the day outside unable to pierce his blanket-draped windows.

The rattle in the dumpster might be rats or men.

They share a common purpose, and even desperation, though if you are honest you must admit the rat is better equipped.

The man, though, possesses a wisdom that will only have value at the end of the world, an end he hopes for with vehement repetition.

A Mantra.

A prayer.

 

 

He’s been that way since Thursday.

I squatted down to get a better look at his face. He seemed younger than his chart indicated, perhaps not even a teenager. It was hard to tell with all the blood.

We found him this way.

They had said “self-inflicted.” This was hard to believe. The damage was  far more extensive than anything I had seen in my thirty years here. I suppose it was possible, but it didn’t make sense.

Don’t let the straitjacket lull you–he is quite dangerous.

My pity got the best of me. That’s all I can say.

Third shift always makes me think about murdering my manager. His name is Kenneth, but Corporate made him have KENNY on his name tag. They think it’s friendlier. Horseshit. Bad enough I get to be bossed around by a pimply puke younger than my grandson. Having to call him “Kenny” is insult to injury.

Third shift means switching from late menu to breakfast, so there’s a lot of downtime between bars closing and the working stiffs starting their days.  The pair of moths that landed on the drive through last night are still there.

I miss my Gretchen so much.

 

“I wish I was a dog, Mel.”

Rae was always saying shit like that. This time I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t say nothing, just kept walking. We had a long way to go before it got light.

“Dog wouldn’t be lost like this. Dog would know where it was.”

That did it.

“I suppose you never heard of a lost dog, then?”

It was just the sound of her crunching footsteps for a long time. She had stopped complaining about her boots, at least.

“They ain’t ever lost except when they want to be. Like us, I expect.”

 

You know how they are.

Takers.

Try to take everything from you. They start with small things.

Please.

Thank you.

Then the expectations come.

Don’t smoke.

Don’t turn into one of those girls.

Every time you agree to do something, they take it from you.

Every time you do it their way.

It’s not yours anymore.

Sometimes you get so mad you want to tear it all out, make it go away forever.

But you can’t. One way or another, they keep you from doing it.

That’s what they did to me.

They think I’m better, but I’m just pretending.

 

“See?” she said. “Winter’s not so bad. I bet they’re selling cider at those stands. Want some cider, Randy?”

“He’s bored, Jeannie. Rather be in his room playing that goddamned game. Am I right?” He hugged the boy’s shoulder in a fatherly way. “Man up, Randy. You don’t get to do what you want every single moment of the day.”

“You say that every single moment of the day,” Randy said. “I don’t know why you can’t let me do my own thing.”

“Family time,” said his mother. “You and me and Dad.”

“He’s not my fucking dad,” said Randy.

 

 

In some ways, it was better than if I had stayed in the states.  Good food and plenty of tourists to work. But in some ways, it was harder. The French cops were smart fuckers, and usually it only took them a day or two to catch on to me. The language was another problem, but that usually worked to my advantage when I ran my scam. The best thing was how Americans were off-guard while in another country. One guy I hustled was a New York lawyer, and you bet I’d never have gotten away with it at home.