Trust | Alexander T. Damle

Fall

               Up above a star shape blinks and tingles melodic, a candelabra on the edge of a grand piano, swirls of light, paths of falling once-life-givers now downwards, thick like a virus stuck to lungs and like the lungs the night breathes heavy for their presence. All around more ground-like are stars too, these different but not just for their electricity (incandescent and fluorescent and neon and plasma and cathode ray and lcd), but for the fact of the arrangement of their beauty, not the Pollockian randomizations of the cosmotic, but some man kind design on the Sale, the Scam, the Freaks, the Geeks, the con-men and cheap games and cheaper prizes, lit up brighter than life, pink and green teddy bears the size of those who oggle them, asking their kin to buy into the con, for them, and some the kin do, for the lights that come on in the kids eyes with The Win. Sticky, smells like cotton candy chewing gum cheap perfume (prom queen hanging off some small town football star), burbling smell-tinge popcorn and funnel cake speckles the cool night air as it roasts away in machines the color of expensive sport cars, sex, the cars far absent from Place Like Here. All through the air too is the heckles, the carnie cries, screams of orgiastic delight erupting in clusters from rides spinning up above the games but below the stars, their lights blurring into confetti streamers.

               Off just to the boardwalk’s left, below a waist high fence made out of old wood, scarred and pockmarked and slightly rotted and slightly green from brine and sea air and the occasional dropping (falling hard and malevolent like snow on the Coldest Night of a great Minnesota blizzard) of shit, deposited from up on high by a disinterested seagull, lap hard with some great anger, sea waves, calling out their first great cry from their last port of call, a million miles from here, but likely by a scene much the same, lights and colours and energy and love, mens’ deepest yearnings always called to with such passion by sea air’s brine.

               Then down the boardwalk wanders one couple, and he’s not a football player and she’s not a prom queen, but they hold each other closer together than those illustrious (in small town’s small definition of the word) two, and they talk and laugh and each peel of laughter from one alights a rosy glitter across the other’s face, and the girl brushes a lock of too-long hair out of the boy’s eye, and then they stop laughing and just look at each other, trying to fall down into each others’ eyes, souls reflected within sharp-coloured face-saucers (their souls or the souls they imagine in the one across from them or the two grown no longer so mutually exclusive), and the boy gingerly plants a kiss on the girl’s lips and she kisses him back.

               Then the boy tightens his grip around the girl’s slim waist (and she once again pushes aside a lock of hair), and parts his lips, as if to speak some truth contained deep within, but then he shuts them again as his words, though yet unspoken, are interrupted, as Another steps into their Perfect Two, breaks the shell that had, over the last stretch of forward motion, grown up around them like an egg around an as yet unborn baby bird, and the voice of the Other serves now to call them into his world.

               He speaks words carefully prepared and practiced to a million young lovers a night, all so perfectly ensnared by one another that his intrusions are allowed to worm their way in as a virus, to capture the minds and hearts and plant Something New beyond their simple love.

               The two step up on the man’s small stage, borders harsh cut with stage lights, blinding top down glare, all immediately outside their space’s heat belonging to shadow, despite the miasmatic phosphorescence smeared as jam on bread across the night sky all around, but the two can feel the faces on them, clustered as the man speaks more, more calls into the night to gather round and see the proof of trust, a physicalization of that old cry - “Put your money where your mouth is!” And the simple notion that burrows itself hard and fast like a bullet shot from a long rifle into chest, and remains there, sitting around and just waiting for the right time to rear its ugly head, the man’s message - if the boy here fails there is something deeply rotten in their love, proof that something is broken like a piece old china.

               But it doesn’t mean anything, the boy thinks as he takes his place behind the girl, she with arms crossed in front of her, eyes directed forwards, piercing beyond the light and darkness, looking seemingly out over the ocean with all its self-alleged infinity, darkness not just at the surface but down deep to its very soul, creatures who never see in light, who never mate for life, who never hold Trust like we hold Trust, and yet beyond the ocean some other Nation, it with its own Trust and its own Trust with this one, and she hopes she can trust like the boy said on that warm spring night with the Jack Daniels  on some back road in the woods, their young bodies lying naked against one another in the back of her truck, perfect trust, forever trust.

               And then, like that, the girl begins to tip backwards, and as she crosses the point of no return, time slows imperceptibly and it will never speed back up again and before she started she was young and life was free and there was trust and now she hears as time slows the breeze whistling slightly past her ears, air pushing up on the back of her neck, the cries of the Watchers, sees above her lights of some ride circling fast and people cry out from it, and she’s still falling and though time is moving so slow as to count the electrons, she knows she’s been falling too long and then she feels her back crack against the wood of the stage and her breath go out of her, and all around her, now at ground level, a few people scream, and the boy, all he can do is whisper oh fuck.

               The carnie barks out something again about trust and now suddenly the trust is gone, so much staked on it for these past few months between those who were, just seconds earlier the Two and are now just the two. It’s not falling out of love, but it's the end of a kind of perfect love.

               Later that night the two sit again under bright lights, but these lights, rather than a sea, a spot against the darkness, an old ice cream stand stuck at the end of a crumbling precipice looking down onto waves crashing and roiling at sharp rocks, the top of an unlit road leading up from the carnival, and under the chemical light, the girl can see dried tears on the boys face, as his tongue lashes out in short licks directed dispassionately at vanilla ice cream, and she tries to say it’s okay, her sipping on a milkshake, lipstick smudged slightly, acne showing through under makeup, the same seer of tears, and for each okay, the boy seems to fade from her a little more, and she knows something irrecoverable is gone.

Road

               Old Honda Nighthawk going a little too fast down lonely road under blanket of fog halfway between two slices of nowhere, the deer popping up as if deposited by fog itself, sliding into the turn, laying the bike flat, an awful screeching noise, and then a burning pain in side, a tree, broken ribs, bike will be fine, given repair, ribs too, question is getting both to a relevant doctor, given current lack of locality.

               The motorcyclist, face young, eyes tired, sits back against the tree, holding his side, trying to pull off his leathers, check for damage, hope for someone to come along, call an ambulance. Or AAA, even. Just his luck his phone would shatter when met with ground’s rising impact.

               Though it’s not but 5pm, early summer, with the fog all seems so dark, road unlit, beyond the tree behind him, all is nought but white, a haze of possibility, could be a house not more than two dozen yards away, could be nothing for two dozen miles. Could be anything, really. He checks his watch, and slowly the hands turn and yet the road remains abandoned, as if man straight up gave up on this patch of earth. Through the fog he can’t even tell if he’s in farmland or forest or those rolling plains of nothing he remembers from his childhood, though he figures it's not that. Can’t hear the ocean here, so that’s something. It’s not much, but it’s something, a suggestion of an identity. Better phone. Should’ve gotten a better phone. Put it in a deeper pocket. Something. Should’ve done something. Been in a few minor accidents before, even broken ribs, though not on his bike, but then there was always someone to save him. Out here though...

               Then from somewhere in the fog, down the road tracking black and double yellow before being all consumed, comes a dull rumble, and the motorcyclist can’t help but think of a line he read on a half-felled wall somewhere - “something wicked this way comes.” He hopes he is wrong, and rather than wicked thus comes a pretty girl in a Porsche, but this isn’t the place for it, not the night.

               Black van, paint chipping off, dent in the left rear fender, what appears to be duct tape over a side panel. Within not a pretty girl, but a man, 40 something, balding, white wifebeater, stained, overweight slightly, but strong looking, big. Something wicked then, his fate for the night. As the van slows to a stop, the brakes make a noise like a pig having its throat slit. Then the door opens.

               “You alright kid?”

               “Laid out the bike... think I broke some ribs.”

               “Shit, that’s some fucking luck. Out here. Nothin’ much out here. I’m only here because I’m visiting an aunt... I’m a carnie, see, and we just happened to end up in a little town near here.”
               “You got a phone? Call an ambulance?”

               “No, don’t do phones. Don’t like people much, you know? Don’t worry though. I’ll get you to a hospital. Not real far. Twenty minutes, thirty.”

               “I...”

               “C’mon, I got space for your bike in back.”

               “It’s pretty heavy, easily 450 pounds...”

               “Hah. I deadlift that before breakfast.” The motorcyclist wants to object, it’s wrong, it feels wrong, warning signs, so many warning signs. And there’s no way the carnie is lifting his bike. Carnie gets out, helps the motorcyclist into the passenger seat, before unlocking the back of his van, opening the doors, then going to the bike. He bends down and the motorcyclist watches, his eyes more than a little worried. As the man stretches out his arms, muscles bend and bulge like an old Popeye cartoon, and then his thigh muscles and glutes engage like actuators on a machine arm, and as lifting nought but air, the man lifts the bike, not just to two wheels but into the sky, supported just by his arms, before setting it, with a care oft reserved for children, into van’s rear. Doors slam shut.

               Something to this night’s air feels decidedly fatalist, and in the motorcyclist’s life, such atmospheric portents had always seemed to come before something decidedly Awful. With each breath inwards he takes, the motorcyclist thinks he catches some smell new on the van, spilled booze, bourbon, judging by bottles rolling about his feet, old cigarettes, then something sweet and rotten, turns slightly and looks over his shoulder, into the back of the van, a few boxes, normal enough, but what of that stain, its colour an indication of-

               “So kid, what brings you to this patch of scorched earth?”

               “Heading to the city.”

               “Oh, yeah? Why you going there?”

               “Uh, gotta see a friend. She uh...”

               “Yeah?” The motorcyclists regrets his noises towards a connection.

               “Well, something happened, she’s kind of shook up, and I haven’t seen her in a bit, so I figured I’d go see how she’s doing, like, yeah.”

               “She a friend, or a, well a friend?” The intonation can’t easily be described, placed on that second friend, but it’s meaning makes itself known immediately to all within ear shot.

               “Just a friend. Old friend. Good friend.”

               “She pretty?”

               “I mean...” The motorcyclist is wary, something about the carnie doesn’t even begin to sit right. “Like, she’s my friend, you know?”

               “Don’t give me none of that shit.” Maybe it’s not but maybe it is, maybe it’s gruff, maybe that edge is anger, maybe it’s some speck of phlegm or bile caught up in the throat. “She pretty or fucking not? Unless you’re gay, which case, I mean, I ain’t judgin’ or nothin’, but, well, never got that whole thing... don’t prevent me from helping you, mind, but. Well, as you said, you know.” And now the motorcyclist knows it's there and knows something has just slipped in the carnie’s voice. Something just slipped South and some affected culturability has just made itself scarce.

               “No, I mean, uh, no, I’m not gay, not that, but, uh... I mean sure, she’s pretty enough, I guess.”

               “Then why she just a, hah, a friend?”

               “We just don’t see each other that way.”

               “Don’t see each other that way... don’t see each other that way... now what kind of horseshit is that? Jesus fuck, I got a hot woman wants to be my friend, I’ll be her friend, but I’ll also do my damndest to be her friend, you get me?”

               “It’s just, it’s not...”

               “Maybe you fuckin’ are a gay. Don’t want to put it in your pretty friend? Fuckin’ shit kid, you sure you not gay?” The voice is now raised and the motorcyclist’s eyes linger on a patch of colour particularly ominous right below the man’s right pectoral, spread like a virus across the slightly off-colour, wrong-smell wife beater. The kid starts to cough, and his side starts hurting like he’s been shot there. “Shit kid, you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just joking!” The motorcyclist’s eyes lock most briefly with the carnie’s and now that wicked thing that was coming seems to have arrived.

               Hospital bed with starched hospital sheets and over the window dreary hospital drapes and septic hospital smell and clinical hospital beep beep general din, brightly lit fog gone. The motorcyclist looks around, looks down, bandages all over his abdominals, breathes and it hurts slightly. He sits up and looks at another young man sleeping in a bed next to him, bandages on him similar, a cop sitting across from them, looking bored. Nods at the motorcyclist, says something about being here for the room’s other occupant.  Nurse comes in.

               “How are you feeling sir?”

               “Ah, hurts to breathe a bit. Better than I was though.”

               “That’s what I’m looking for.”

               “How’d I get here?”

               “A man found you on the edge of a road, brought you in. Even brought your bike.”

               “Oh, yeah?”

               “He’s actually waiting outside. Wanted to make sure you were okay. He’s been real sweet, asking all of us about you. He seems really worried.” She pauses. “You seem to be doing alright - would you like to see him?”

               “Yeah, sure, why not?”

               The carnie walks in, same wife beater, now even more soaked with sweat, same broken looking face, but when he sees the motorcyclist sitting up in bed, his face lights up.

9mm

               As the mid-morning sun floats hazy through the blinds, splitting itself up amongst flasks and beakers, reflecting here off chrome barrel, light the colour of peach ice cream, the old man sees a cone the colour of the light in the hand of the daughter he almost had. Instead he has a Beretta and a lab (well, it’s not his, as his boss is so fond of repeating, loud and stoned), and money and a fast car, and then the kid came along and he knows it's silly and it's a trope but he feels somehow like the kid belongs to him as well. Kid seems real, more than the daughter at least.

Kid’s asleep. Shouldn’t be. Supposed to be watching the cooks. Job. That’s the job. Watch the cooks. Keep a gun under the shoulder and an eye open and that’s the job. Cook looks bored, and a little bit hungover but she’s the best so who cares if she has to drink just to make it through. Now he thinks of his brother and his father and bonds of - but then he’s interrupted, something on the monitor, outside front camera.

               Not right.

               Something’s not right.

               Van across the road.

               No other traffic.

               Too quiet.

               Looks closely. What could be glinting on that not distant rooftop? And that sound, is that, he’s heard that sound, fwap fwap, oil fires, Kuwait, desert, guns, and he checks his and his eyes linger briefly on the kid. He’s dressed cheap, beat up grey sneakers, used to be white, torn shorts, t-shirt from some children’s show, rising and falling with breaths in out in out, Sig Sauer strung up in a shoulder holster, right side, kid’s a leftie. Doesn’t know why he just notices this now. Then he taps the kid on the shoulder and the kid stirs. Old man takes his gun from his own holster. Kid. Get your gun out. Then to the cook - in the bathroom, now. Neither has to be told twice.

               Old man looks around the room, used to be a kid’s bedroom in a nice suburban home, but then the neighborhood went down hill as some other neighborhood came up it. On the second floor. Windows along one wall, facing an industrial site. Another with no windows. Rest facing inwards, door in one to the bathroom, other to a hallway. Tells the kid to watch the hall, looks out the window.

               Downstairs a door comes crashing inwards, hard, and he hears a gruff woman yell to the doorman to get down, then he hears a short burst, MP5, he reckons. Boots on the stairs. He makes a calculation internally, briefly, kicks open the door to the bathroom, shoots the cook in the head, lights a pile of something dangerous and powdered sitting amongst the beakers. Two minutes. Max.

               Protection inside if he goes inside if he plays it like he’s supposed to play it. For the kid, maybe. Then to the kid Come on! And the kid turns from the hall and as he does that voice again and freeze this time and the kid freezes, but the old man, 9mm clears his holster, puts three in the cop, just like he was taught, and he sees the cop go down but then another round strikes the kid in the shoulder, and the man plays it now like he’s not supposed to play it and pulls the kid into the room and slams the door (steel reinforced, few seconds, all they need), then the kid turns his head to the old man. Blood, belly wound, pretty bad. Could be worse but this is pretty bad, and then the kid opens his mouth but the old man tells him to shut up, and they go to the window and the old man opens it, pushes the kid to go, reminds him to roll and again the kid starts to talk and again the old man tells him to shut up. Fire burning. Should hit just the Wrong thing pretty soon now. Old man follows the kid out, feels his joints try their socket limits upon impact, age infectious.

               Get away plan, simple, half a block, a car. Go.

               Picks the kid up, kid really hurting, old man can tell, start running, along the side of the industrial site, cut in between some buildings. Old man was worried about that sniper, apparently didn’t draw a bead fast enough. Or maybe something else, who knows. The kid needs a break, breathing hard, bleeding more, old man takes off his shirt, tears it like he was taught, tells the kid to use it to staunch the bleeding, he’ll be fine, just gotta make it to the car. Then the kid looks at the man again and starts talking, and this time he doesn’t stop when told.

               He tells the man that the cops made the house because he gave it to them. He needed a way out, he couldn’t do it. Wasn’t cut out for this life. Wasn’t cut out for any life, maybe, but certainly not this one. Tells the old man to leave him behind. Old man looks at him and all he can do is choke out that it doesn’t matter.

               It does. This is it then, the old man considers with only passing notice given for the blood that now coats his hand like fresh paint on the side of a house, the end of everything. Bullets and blood, kid in him would’ve wanted this. Kid in him’s dead though. Old man all that’s left, old man doesn’t wish for his shootout in blood and fury, would’ve been content now to die quiet. Wrong life for it though.

               A loud boom from behind, old man turns briefly to look at the fireball as the house is propelled outwards by the disease that had been growing within.

               Kid’s breathing a little easier now. Old man tells him to move. Kid says no. Kid says it’s over. Old man says it’s not over until guns are empty, car is shot to hell, they lie dead in the street. Not there yet. Kid says he broke the rules. Done everything he shouldn’t have. Old man only one ever been nice to him, went against him, hard.

               Old man says it doesn’t matter.

               Kid says it’s all that matters.

               Old man begins to pull the kid along, and pretty soon the kid starts moving by his own legs, and this is good the old man thinks, this isn’t going anywhere if they don’t keep moving. Wonder cops aren’t on them already. SWAT pointman (pointwoman?, vocabulary of violence, changing with the times) must be dead. Doesn’t make sense though. But who knows - don’t count your blessings, isn’t that what they say?

Out from between the buildings, and the sun still laying low in the sky, cuts out hard in front of them, blinded momentarily, not good, the old man thinks. Very much not good. But the car, almost to the car, get in the car and drive the car and get gone, boss will protect him, he’s good, he did what he was supposed to do. Then the old man notices the kid’s breathing has slowed.

And then he hears boots and he hears the chopper again, and cars, more cars, and then as his vision clears, though the sun remains, cops all over him, and he knows he doesn’t have much of a shot left. The kid fucked him, and the old man knows this, and the old man whispers this to the kid, asks him why he did it, and the kid says he doesn’t know, but he regretted it as soon as he did, it felt bad, felt wrong, felt like he broke something sacred. Old man tells him he did, but he’s just a kid and kids do stupid things, but he’s an old man and he’s used all his second chances. Then he tells the kid to live, he has the chance now, life he chooses, then he takes the kid’s gun, knows it’s a lie but says it anyway.

Two guns, the kid in the old man’s dreams ended like this. He turns to the nearest car and he sees guns sighted down all around him, and he starts to pull triggers, bullets going all wild, doesn’t work like in the movies. His shadow is caught long in the sun as that sniper puts him down, all 9mm rounds burying themselves far from targets, trees and siding and all the rest but flesh.

And the old man’s body falls next to the kid and the kid knows the old man is dead and he wonders if he is too.

Date Night

               The woman stares at her glass, the way the stem tapers up, expands out, bleeding edge, obfuscating restaurant beyond, empty chair across from her drawn into sharp focus, even as all else seems to be drawn out into absurdity. Her eyes drift towards her purse, from which her phone finds its way to her hand, checks the time. Again. Ten minutes late. She knows she shouldn’t worry, but she hates sitting in restaurants alone, always concerned that each sideways look is couched in judgement.

               Then from behind her the man walks, confident and with a quick step, back straight, expensive black sport coat, tight fitting white shirt, buttoned to a couple inches below the neck, tailored jeans, just the right side of too tight, clinging to his ass, just as the shirt shows off his pecs, chiseled with hard work and protein supplements. He’s more handsome in person than in his pictures. The woman feels vaguely self-conscious, naked in her cheap dress, set self-consciously behind the empty table.

               Then the anxiety vanishes as she rises to meet the man and he takes her in a warm embrace.

               “It’s good to finally meet you! You’re so much prettier in person! Not to say you’re not beautiful in your pictures, haha...” His words are weighed with a careful mix of confidence and that sort of subtle nerdy anxiety that the woman finds instantly disarming. More importantly, the man in front of her isn’t so different from the one pictured on his dating profile, unlike so many she’d already met.

               21st century dating is one hell of a thing.

               “Yeah, I was going to say the same about you.”

               “Oh, don’t flatter me.” A brief pause - “So, you ever been here before?”

               “No, isn’t really my sort of... well...”

               “Hah, not mine either. But, you know, first impressions. You don’t mind it, do you?”

               “No, no, it’s nice.”

               “Yeah, I’ve heard the steak is good, unless, of course...”

               “I’m vegetarian.”

               “So am I, actually! Reason I say I’ve heard...”

               They talk on this way for a while, unconcerned and un-self conscious, a feeling that surprises the woman, in the best possible way. Online dating so often turns into an exercise in putting in the best foot forward, while simultaneously trying to reckon the true self on the one sat across from you. Now though, both those sat at the table feel real, honest, genuine, not their deepest self, that reserved theoretically for some time down the line, but at least a function of it, and not the function of the self reserved for cocktail parties and job interviews.

               “Me? I grew up in a little town by the ocean. I was the football captain, actually. Dated the prom queen and everything. Realized after I graduated that I didn’t want to be that guy, so I went off to university, got a real career going.”

               “You miss it?”

               “What?”

               “Being, well, important, I guess.”

               “I mean, sometimes. What I really remember is wandering down the boardwalk with the carnival in town, prom queen on my arm and everything, it all felt just like a Springsteen song. Seemed so perfect, so right. I don’t feel like that much anymore. But maybe that’s for the best. Life isn’t perfect. Not supposed to be.”

               “Yeah, that’s true. That’s definitely true. As soon as you know something for certain, it ceases to really be interesting.”

               “With you there. So what about you? What’s your story?”

               “I grew up in the city. My mom never had much money, stuck between a half dozen shitty waitressing jobs. I never knew my dad.”

               “That must have been hard.”

               “I don’t know - my mom said she doesn’t think he ever even knew I existed. They got together, then he went off to Kuwait and never looked back. I always wonder what he ended up doing in life, hell, I don’t know if he even made it home.”
               “Have you ever thought about looking him up?”

“Nah, I figure if he’d cared to have a daughter, he would’ve at least talked to my mom after he shipped out. After he did what he did, I don’t think I’d ever be able to trust him. Or want to.”

               And so, common pleasantries slip away to reveal deeper truths amongst the two, life and family and history and politics, those things you’re always told not to mention on a first date, not unless you want to do something awful like forge a Genuine Connection, and so between the two it was formed, and they eat their meals, finish up desert.

               “So now comes the most fractious part of any first date - the check.” The man says with a smile, and the woman braces. “I’m not one for traditions, but it’s also my feeling that the person who asks should always pick up the bill.”

               “Works for me.”

               Then the bill is paid, and that awkward after date parting comes along, as it always does.

               “So.”

               “So.”

“I, uh... I’ve got a car here, if you want a ride home?”

“Yeah, that’d be good. Cabs in this city always make me more than a little bit wary.”

“I don’t blame you.”

               Cruising down the freeway, windows open to the summer wind, music beating along quietly under their conversation, the woman is reminded of movies she used to love as a kid, and the man is reminded again of being a football captain, although he’s replaced his cheap pick-up with an Audi, and outlaw country with mid-century jazz.

               “You know, if you want, I don’t live too far from you. If you want, we could stop at mine for a drink...”

               “Uh, well... I’m not...”

               “Don’t worry, when I say a drink, I mean a drink. You said you like whiskey? I’ve got some good stuff.”

               “I... sure, why not. Just a drink.”

               In the elevator up to his twenty eighth floor apartment, towering above the city, looking down from up on high, silent judgment, the woman stares nervously at the floor, holding her purse close. As they approached his, the man got quieter, and this seems wrong and he suddenly seems wrong, his posture more slouching. Trust issues. That’s what her mom always said. She said she had her reasons. Didn’t want to get into it. Reasons, good reasons.

               Elevator doors slide open with a ding, and the man smiles and holds out his hand, indicating for her to step out first, then they walk together towards his flat and he only smiles, but she still looks warily at the floor.

               They stop at the door to a corner apartment for the man to fish in his pockets for his keys.

               “Everything okay?” He asks, a look of slight consternation on his face, keys still not located.

               “Yeah, uh, why?” The man now switches pockets, and smiles again as he comes up immediately with a set of keys, large and jangling.

               “You just seem a little quiet.”

               “Oh, yeah, sorry, I just... I’m fine, really.”

               “So, you got a preference on style of whiskey? Highland, Islay, Lowland, Speyside... I think I don’t have anything from Campbeltown right now...” His apartment has high ceilings, exotic wood, glass and concrete and granite, a wall full of books, a TV bigger than some cars she’s owned. And from the corner facing out, the whole city, arrayed in light, stretching out to stop abruptly with farmland. Far down the coast line she sees a little patch of lights and then the land comes to a head at a peninsula.

               “Holy shit...”

               “100 mile view on a clear night, the Realtor told me. I didn’t really believe them until I saw it myself.”

               “Holy fucking shit.”

               “How bout that whiskey then?”

               “Uh, I mean, when I said I liked whiskey, I was more talking JD, Southern Comfort... maybe some Johnnie Walker Black if I’m feeling fancy... sorry...”

               “Hey, don’t apologize. I can introduce you to some of their Scottish brothers if you want. If you’re not feeling adventurous tonight, I mix a pretty good old fashioned.”

               “I’m... I’m sorry, but... I don’t think this is going to work.”
               “What?”

               “I... it’s just not going to.”

               “Look, I’m sorry...” He seems perfectly calm, as if the entire situation is couched firmly in the palm of his hand. “Really, I am. I didn’t... I’m sorry if this was a little much... I’m... I’m not used to... I really am sorry.” And now the woman’s truly confused, where is the truth, the suave guy who she’d been talking so openly to all night, or the anxiety, the strangeness, the absurd apartment.

               “That’s... sorry. Maybe I’m just being rash. I’ll stay for a drink, I guess. Just one. An old fashioned sounds good.”

               “Sure - two old fashioneds coming up. Take a seat, it’ll just be a few minutes.” So she sits on the couch, real leather, she realizes immediately, not that it would be anything else in a place like this. Over in the kitchen, open to the sitting room, mid-century modern she thinks the style is called, he mixes drinks with smiles on his face. Then another burst of suspicion crosses her -

               “Hey, I thought you said you were vegetarian.”

               “Uh... oh yeah, I am.”

               “Leather couches?”

               “They were here when I moved in. I figured it would be wasteful to get rid of them, leather or not.”

               “Oh. So, I don’t think you ever told me - what do you do for a living?”

               “It’s not important... I don’t really like to talk about it.” And again alarm bells are ringing. And then he’s walking towards her with a drink in each hand. More alarms, five alarm fire, twister over trailer park.

               “You know... you know what... I think, I think I forgot I have to be somewhere...” she moves for the door and the man, his face sinks.

               “Oh, uh... I’m uh... I’m sorry... that’s too... I’ll call you then maybe?”

               And she’s out the door, and she’s on the elevator, and as the doors close, she sinks to the ground, and holds her head in her hands.

Black Thursday | Theland E. Thomas

An Exerpt from the short story collection, Grandpa Alfred's Christmas Tales, now on Amazon Kindle...

Decorations brightened the entire house. Strings of reflective tinsel spiraled around the banisters and railings. Colored lights, like the ones meticulously wrapped around the pine tree, brightened the entire living room. Outside, red and green lights adorned the roof. The lights outshined the stars at night. All the world joined in the celebration of Christ’s birth by cluttering their yards and gardens with bright recreations of Santa Claus and the virgin birth and of elves and toys and baby Jesus.

Greg turned his back on the shimmering Christmas tree and gazed toward the decorations that adorned the ledge between the living room and the kitchen, his gaze settling on one in particular. Past the miniature Christmas tree and the elves and the nutcracker was a two-tiered slate leaning on the wall. On the top half was a depiction of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in the manger, and on the bottom a horned Satan and two smaller demons writhed in a fiery inferno.

“What?” Sandi said as she walked into the kitchen.

“Oh, just the same thing as every year: I hate that stupid plaque. It’s unsettling.”

The oven released a burst of sweet aroma as Sandi opened it to retrieve the gingerbread cookies. “I just don’t get it. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s showing the triumph of Jesus’ birth over the defeat of the devil.”

“Yeah, but look at their faces.” Greg leaned closer to the picture to view the contorted, red demons. “They’re supposed to be in torment, but the devil kinda looks like he’s smiling. It’s like he’s secretly happy about it.”

Sandi stopped. “You’re being ridiculous.”

DING-DONG! The doorbell sounded, triggering a reminder that he never did get that bell that played the melody of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” for Sandi. Maybe next year. “Well, that’s Dad. I’ll let him in.”

“Wait!” She followed him down the hall and to the door. “You have to make sure he’s appropriate this year. Last year was out of hand.”

Greg turned to her. “C’mon Sandi. He’ll be okay.” The doorbell rang again, and he opened the door, allowing in a blast of cold air. “Hi, Dad!”

“Hey, sonny!” Grandpa Alfred, who was wearing a red sweater that read “NAUGHTY” in white cursive, shuffled in and hugged Greg. “I brought eggnog,” he said with a wink, holding up his bag. “The fun kind.”

“Oh, boy,” Sandi said.

“Sandi!” Grandpa hugged her too. “You know you can have some eggnog with us.”

“Grandpa Alfred!” Sam and Simon rushed thunderously down the stairs.

He bent down and embraced them both. “Little munchkins. I haven’t seen you in . . . well I don’t know how long! Look how tall you’ve both gotten.”

Sam pulled away. “Grandpa, you said that yesterday.”

“Just because I make an observation twice, doesn’t make it any less true, young lady. Now who’s ready for a Christmas story?”

“Meeeee!” The kids cried in unison before running to the living room. Grandpa Alfred started after them.

Sandi cast a long glance at Greg. “As long as it’s Rated PG.”

Grandpa called back, “I wouldn’t dream of anything more.”

The family gathered in the fireplace-lit living room, the kids on the floor before Grandpa in the rocking chair, and Greg on the couch, his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Bespectacled, Grandpa Alfred pulled a thick, burgundy book from his bag. “I think I’ve got a story you little ones haven’t heard before . . .”

Black Thursday

One cold Thanksgiving evening, there was a lowly retail employee—let’s call him Tom. Now, the world was such an evil and crooked place that, instead of spending Thanksgiving with his girlfriend, Tom was forced to go to work and serve the hordes of greedy customers lined up outside of his store. She said it was okay, that she could just go to a friend's, but Tom knew that she was really disappointed. Black Thursday night began at 5, and people were excited. Countless customers were lined up all the way down the block. Many had even set up tents in the parking lot—all to get the best deal on a flat screen TV or a cell phone or some other electronic.

So, understandably, Tom was mad. Just thinking about the fact that he had to be missing quality family time working for these greedy, greedy people was enough to make his teeth grind. But, like many people in his position, he kept quiet and did his job and hoped the paycheck at the end of the week was big enough. Speaking of which, he did not receive time-and-a-half for working on the holiday.

“I’m so pissed I’m here right now,” he said to his friend, Courtney.

Courtney was also pissed, but chronically so. Tom supposed it was from being given a girl’s name. “Yeah,” Courtney said, nearly yelling to project over the absurdly loud Christmas music. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna start fights. As soon as the door opens, I’ll just throw a punch here, a kick there. No one’s gonna know it’s me.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Tom replied offhandedly as he stared out the sets of sliding double doors at the crowd of people smashed up against them. They were pounding against the glass, shouting, peering in with angry faces that looked like the masks of ghouls.

All the employees turned around when the boss walked in. “Alright,” he said. “Who’s opening the doors?” No one made eye contact. “Thomas!”

He cursed under his breath as the boss threw the keys to him.

“Take your positions everybody. Doors open in thirty seconds! And no screw-ups. I will fire you!”

Several employees lined up behind him as he approached the doors. Past the wreaths and tinsel and the banner that read Black Thursday Extravaganza, he walked, each step filled with dread and loathing. The banging and screaming intensified as he approached the door, so much so that Tom couldn't even hear the music. He gulped, took a deep breath, and pushed the key into the door. BOOM! Tom jumped back, heart pounding. On the other side of the door, at eye level, a crazed man slammed his face against the glass. As he slid toward the ground, he left a smear of spit. This incited a frenzy amongst the crowd who redoubled their assault on the glass doors. The noise. He just wanted it to stop.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Tom heard the boss holler. "Open the damn doors already!"

With a gulp, Tom turned the key in the latch. Before he could even move to activate the automatic doors, the horde flung them open and stampeded in. Tom spun desperately to flee, but, alas, was knocked to and fro by the savage shoppers until he finally lost his balance and toppled to the ground. Paying no mind, the crowd earnestly stomped on and around him, a minor sacrifice, of course, for the greater prize. All Tom could do was cover his head and pray that something out there would rescue him from this wretched nightmare before Christmas.

After a few minutes, all the clamor had passed. Tom listened around and glanced about and slowly collected himself, taking a moment to inspect his wounds. Both of his hands had been crushed, his swollen lip throbbed, and pain radiated from various bodily wounds.

"It's the most wonderful season of all!" the singer on the intercom proclaimed gaily.

Tom stumbled to his feet and limped into the mess of moving shopping cart traffic, anger stewing inside his heart. In that instant, blindingly bright lights shone behind him. He shielded his eyes and turned around to face them. The glare was so dazzling he couldn't rest his eyes upon it, the heat so intense, he broke into an instant sweat. Suddenly, the lights died out, leaving only splotches of orange in his vision. The cool rushed in through the open doors. Squinting, Tom could make out a huge, red work truck. All of the doors swung open in unison, and several Hispanic men unloaded from the inside with several more leaping from the truck bed. A man Tom assumed to be the one in charge strode up to him.

"Hello," he greeted with a thick Spanish accent as he extended his hand. "My name is Jesús, and we are here to fix your problems."

Tom's heart sank. "What problems?"

Jesús unfolded a pink slip from his pocket and glanced at it. "Eh, your plumbing, heating, electricity, and drywall."

"Uhhhh," Tom started to turn around. "Hold on, let me get my boss."

With that, Tom bound into the throng of wildly weaving shoppers, dodging, ducking, dipping, diving, and dodging with surprising agility given the plethora of injuries previously mentioned. He hurried toward the back of the store until he came upon a large group of people in an all-out brawl. They were throwing fists and items at each other with abandon, grappling, groping, biting, and backstabbing. They fell over carts with cries and grasped items with grunts, shrieking and scratching. Tom was going to have to find another route. He took a step back and bumped into a body.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Courtney said, rubbing his hands together slowly.

"You did this?" Tom asked.

"No, of course not. They're obviously the ones doing it."

"Okay, whatever, where's the boss?"

Courtney shrugged. "Probably in the back with the new girl. As usual. Dirty bastard."

Tom rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated puff as he made the detour around the brawl. The intercom blared “What Child Is This?" at deafening volumes. Coupled with the din of shoppers, the clamor was unbearable. Tom actually breathed a sigh of relief when he finally made it into the back offices, amid the company of grey, lifeless walls. Wincing in pain, he knocked on the boss' door.

"Just a minute!" the boss yelled from the other side. He heard rustling and a belt buckle and, sure enough, a woman's chuckle. Tom ground his teeth and tapped his foot as he waited. Finally, the boss cracked open the office door. "What is it?"

"Just some guys here to fix stuff. The plumbing . . ."

"Shit! That's today?!" The boss barrelled past him, leaving the door to slowly swing open.

Tom's jaw dropped when he saw who was in that office. "Veronica?"

His girlfriend quickly covered herself with her blouse. "Tom, it's not what it looks like," she cried with desperation hanging in her voice.

Pressure rose to Tom's face. "It's not? Because it looks like you two were in here fu—"

"AH, AH, AH, U-UH, U-UH!" Greg interjected, waving his hands. "Hey, Dad, why don't we just skip this part of the story?" He glanced over at Sandi, who responded with an icy death glare.

Grandpa Alfred looked up from the storybook. "Aw, but this is the juicy part."

"Yeah," Sam chimed in. "This is the juicy part, Daddy."

"Well, I'm not really a fan of juice after all. I prefer water. Let's . . . tone it down."

Tom stormed out of the office with tears brimming in his eyes. The pressure pounded in his head and blinded his judgment like the water blinded his sight. He tore from the back rooms, ready to rip the boss apart. He was going to kill him! He was going to knock him out . . . He was . . . on second thought, that wasn't such a great idea. Tom clenched his fists and ground his teeth. He really needed this job.

He arrived at the front of the store just in time to hear Jesús through the din of the checkout line and holiday shoppers. "We will start on the pluming first and then do the heating and electrical work, okay?"

"No, it's not okay!” the boss cried. "This is the busiest day of the year! You can't just come in and tear up the whole place!"

"Buddy," Jesús said, "it’s not my fault you scheduled us for today. We're busy people too. Maybe you should manage your store better instead of screwing around when nobody's watching."

The color drained from the boss' face as Jesús and his crew brushed past him. He turned around and glowered at Tom. "Don't you have work to do?"

Tom ducked his head and turned into one of the aisles. The shelves were a wreck. The ones that weren't stripped bare were ransacked. Items lay torn from their packages, some completely missing. Toys littered the floor and had been smashed underfoot by the insatiable horde. He got to work, removing the defective product and pulling what little remained to the front. Soon, the repetitive work allowed Tom's mind to rest—to fall into that sleepy complacency that so often accompanies manual labor.

"Hey, mister?" A child's voice shattered the calm, and the clamor came rushing back. The voice came from a little boy who oddly resembled that kid from Home Alone. "Where's the water fountain?"

"It's . . ." Tom started to point, then reconsidered. "Follow me, I'll show you."

He led the little boy through the aisles, passing shoppers stuffing their carts, clawing over items, and screaming at each other. A commercial blared over the intercom: "What better way to spread holiday cheer than to get the perfect gift here at . . ." He glanced behind him to make sure the kid was still there. Finally, they arrived at the water fountain by restrooms in the far corner of the store, but when the little boy took a sip, he spat it out with a cry.

"Ew," he said. "This water tastes like metal!"

"What?" Tom pushed the fountain, and sure enough, red, rusty water poured forth from the spout. "Welp, sorry dude. You'll have to get your mom to buy you some."

The boy looked down at his shoes and quietly said, "Actually, I don't know where my mommy is."

Tom rolled his eyes and told the kid to follow him to the customer service desk. As he passed the front of the store he found Jesús and his crew walking the opposite direction as him—the opposite direction of shopper traffic—causing patrons to swerve to avoid them and further congesting the walkway. Jesús gestured toward him as he approached.

"Hey, guy, where is your boss?"

In that instant, the rage Tom felt earlier that night rushed to the forefront. Suddenly, the blood pounded in his head, and he choked out, "I don't know."

"Well, tell him we're done with the plumbing, and we are going to start on the AC."

Before Jesús and his crew continued past, Tom stopped them. "Hey, you guys did the plumbing? There's rust in the water."

"Yeah, just run the water and that will clear out," Jesús said.

"Are you sure? That's never happened before."

Jesús started walking away. "Don't doubt me. I can do my job."

So, Tom continued to the service desk thinking what an ass that guy was. He dropped the kid off with the new service desk girl all the while fantasizing about how he could get back at his boss. On the one hand, he needed the money, and he was a pretty loyal guy, but on the other hand, this job had taken more than he was willing to offer. His outside life, his girlfriend . . . Veronica. Right then, something broke. Finally, the emotion welling within spilled over into action, and Tom marched diagonally through the crowd back to the service desk.

The new girl announced over the intercom, "Braden Wilson's mom, he is waiting for you at the service desk. Braden Wilson's mom, he's here at the service desk."

Before New Girl could put the phone down, Tom snatched it and said, "Also, Veronica, I hate you, and I was going to break up with you anyway!" He looked around at the mildly interested faces, already regretting making such a rash decision. Well, it was too late now. Feedback screeched on the intercom as he put the phone back up to his mouth. "Have fun with fatso. I don't care. This is my last shift!" He dropped the phone on the counter, and the thud from the speakers pierced his ears and made everyone wince.

With that, Tom held his head high and fought the crowd to get to the electronics section. The teeming of bodies caused the air to stifle and the temperature to skyrocket. It actually seemed to get hotter the further back into the store he traveled. Soon, sweat flowed from his pores, and his throat was parched. When Tom made it back, the brawl was even bigger than before. The sweaty fighters used sales items as weapons, bashing each other with signs and posts, ramming others in the ankles with carts and allowing the mob to converge on them as they fell. To his right, three customers tugged a TV, their red fingers and faces a testament to their determination. Suddenly, a fourth guy jumped and elbow-slammed the TV, smashing the screen through the box. Tom pushed past sticky bodies to find Courtney reveling in the violence.

"Hey, Tom," he said with a crazed grin on his face. "Isn't this great?"

"Yeah," Tom laughed. "Did you hear my announcement?"

Courtney frowned, "Nope. Hey, man, it's kind of hot in here." He pulled on his sweat-soaked work shirt.

"Yeah, some guys are working on the AC."

"Oh." Courtney turned away to watch the show.

Tom spoke into his ear over the noise, "Well, I caught my girlfriend cheating on me with the boss."

"That bastard!"

"So, I'm quitting after tonight."

"Yeah, that's how it is? We should get him! Make him pay."

"What are you going to do?" Tom asked. "You're still going to be working here."

"The hell I am!" Courtney said.

Right then, the boss emerged from the crowd. "Where the hell is that Jesus guy?" He shouted, pronouncing the name in English. "Do you know how many complaints I've gotten about this heat? Thomas, go find him!"

Heat rose to Tom's face. He wanted to say so many things. He wanted to tell the boss to piss off. He wanted to punch him in the face. Instead, he ate his words and turned to complete the errand, courage depleted. It really was hot in the store. The hectic movements of the shoppers devolved into a slow drag as the sweltering heat sapped their energy. There! Tom spotted one of Jesús' crew. He jogged up to him, panting after traveling the short distance.

"Hey, where's Jesús?"

The worker gave him a blank stare and started, "No . . . No espeak English."

"Jesús?" Tom spoke louder, as if that would cause him to understand.

"No," the man said. "Me llamo Pedro."

"No." Tom shook his head and spoke even louder. "No, donde Jesús? Where is Jesús?"

"No . . . no sé . . ."

Tom walked past him, annoyed at the useless energy expenditure. Amazingly, the back rooms were even hotter than the rest of the store. He braced himself on the wall when he entered, resting to pant for a little while. Then, he continued down the corridor. Eventually, he found Jesús and part of his crew tinkering with the air conditioning system.

Tom gasped, "Hey . . . Jesús . . . it's so hot."

Jesús turned from his work. "What?"

The crew looked perfectly fine. Not a bead of sweat hung from any of their faces. Tom wiped his forehead. "Jesús, when are you going to finish? We're all dying out here."

"We're almost done here. I've got guys on the walls and electricity."

The intercom squawked overhead, causing all of them to look up. Courtney’s voice came on. "I'm sick of working here, so I'm quitting! Anyone who's sick and tired of being abused and not making enough to pay rent, come join me in the electronics department and express your frustration!" The intercom clicked.

Jesús stood up and wiped his hands, staring Tom straight in the eye. "If you know what's good for you, you wouldn't go over there." He pointed at him. "You got a pure heart."

Tom turned away. "You don't know about me."

When he stepped back onto the sales floor, the customers were running amok. Only a few workers remained at their posts—the others ran around toppling shopping carts and throwing merchandise from shelves. Tom headed to the electronics department where a ring of employees surrounded the everlasting brawl. Courtney led them in a chant: "We want fair wages, we want fair treatment!"

Filled with awe, Tom stared at the spectacle. There was so much chaos that, for that moment, it seemed like the world was coming to an end.

And then it was pitch black.

Everyone in the store drew in a collective gasp. Then someone screamed, "Take everything!"

The calm blanket of darkness instantly transformed into a into a veil of madness. People ran left and right, bumping Tom forward and backward. So he joined in. He ran blind, arms outstretched whacking anything and everything in his path. Aimlessly, he tumbled down the aisles knocking items off the shelves, euphoria masking the pain in his hands. He reveled in the rebellion, the most he'd ever experienced in his life. He ran at such a rapid pace that he didn't notice the ground begin to shake. A deafening rumble crashed on his left, followed by a blast of dust. The euphoria Tom had experienced quickly evaporated as he realized what was happening. A section of the store had collapsed. Screams of those trapped floated from the black rubble.

The rest of the store sprung into a panic, and the bodies shoving past Tom now all fled the same direction—to the front doors. Tom spun around in the darkness. "There's people trapped!" he shouted. "Someone help!" No one paid any attention to him, and no one saw as he waved his arms. Another rumble erupted, this time from the other end of the store. The ceiling crashed down in a wave of flames. A lump caught in Tom's throat as panic set in. He turned away from the screams and ran toward the front.

"Boss! Boss!" Tom heard in the distance. He turned around to see Courtney with his legs trapped under debris. The boss slowed to a halt. He was holding Veronica's hand. "Boss," he strained, stretching out his bleeding arm. "Help me. Please."

The boss cast his gaze down upon Courtney's fallen form. He let Veronica's hand go and grasped Courtney's as he crouched down to look him in the eye. "Courtney . . ." he started, "you're fired." The boss stood up and walked away.

Veronica screeched, "You're not going to help him?"

Black smoke hung in the air, scorching their lungs. "C'mon," Tom said as he rushed over to Courtney. He and Veronica tried to lift the slab of concrete, but no matter how hard they pulled and strained, it wouldn't budge. Another section of the ceiling collapsed, and the debris slid forward, crushing Courtney's lower torso.

He coughed up blood and wheezed, "Just . . . go . . ."

The smoke stung Tom's eyes. "No, man, we're going to get you out of here."

"Go!" Courtney insisted. "You'll die too."

"Let's go," Veronica said, pulling Tom's hand. Tom stood and ran hand-in-hand with Veronica, hot tears streaming down his face. Unfortunately, between them and the front door was a flaming stack of rubble. They slowed to a stop as they realized the inevitability of their impending doom. Standing before the flames was the boss. He turned around to face them, glancing down at their clasped hands and back up to their faces. Together, they contemplated in silence until the building collapsed upon them as well.

As Tom lay dying, body pinned mercilessly under concrete and rebar, he saw Jesús and his crew on the outside of the building. In Jesús' arms was the little boy from the water fountain. Smoke clouded his view as he watched them all pile into the work truck, but the headlights burned through in a blaze of glory. And just as quickly as they'd arrived, they disappeared.

Grandpa Alfred set the book down on his lap. The family sat in silence, listening to the cracking and popping of the fireplace.

"Wow," Sandi was the first to speak up. "How is that even a Christmas story? All that was in the book?"

"Well," Grandpa chuckled, "I ad-libbed a little bit."

Greg glanced down at the storybook and noticed that Grandpa was holding it upside-down.

“Wow, that was the best story ever!” Sam exclaimed. “Can you tell us another one? Pleeeease?”

“Yeah,” Simon echoed, barely able to pronounce the words. “That story was reawy, reawy . . . reawy reawy . . . the best story eva!”

Greg refused to meet Sandi’s eyes, saying, “Only if Grandpa promises it’ll be more tame.”

Grandpa peered over his reading glasses, eyes shifting between Sandi and Greg. “You know, I don’t like making promises I can’t keep.”

Sandi glowered. “We’re not asking you to.”

He raised his eyebrows and flipped a few pages in the storybook. “Okay . . . something tame. Oh! I’ve got just the one . . .”

Want to read more? Get Grandpa Alfred's Christmas Tales on Kindle today!