CROSSES TO BEAR - a short story

 

CROSSES TO BEAR

BY ROY L. PICKERINGJR.

 

 

Things were going to be weird.  So much had happened, so much had changed.  The world as Ray Mosley had come to know it was not the same.  It would never be again.

Ray raised his sunglasses to study his reflection in the bus window.  He was pleased by what he saw.  He couldn't help but marvel at what an improvement the 18-year old Ray was over previous editions.  His braces were a thing of the past, and his acne had quickly vanished upon arrival on the west coast.  He had let his hair grow long and liked the way it framed his face.  Ray knew that he was still no pretty boy, but was convinced he was finally growing into his own.  The girls back home had never taken to him before.  He wondered what they would think of him now.

As different as he was, it was his hometown that had truly undergone cosmetic surgery.  A few minutes after passing the sign welcoming one and all to Clemensville, evidence of this began to present itself.  The site of Ray's formative years now included a shopping mall.  It had been under construction throughout his childhood.  Grown-ups had discussed on mosquito plagued porch lit nights how it would boost the town's economy.  Kids talked in excitedly reverential tones about the video arcade and six-screen movie theater they had been promised.  The future, though not quite living up to such grand expectations, had nonetheless arrived.  What was there left for people to talk about?

As he walked the mile and a half that separated the bus terminal from his home, Ray looked for signs of further change.  Two blocks from his destination he came across one. 

He had thought Howard's Malt Shop would be around forever.  It had never failed to satisfy his craving for a rootbeer float and the best burger and fries on God's green earth.  The building was still standing, but no Howard, no floats, no booth where he had spent innumerable hours listening to the jukebox, spoiling his dinner, dreaming about being someplace else someday.

"Hello, son.  Welcome home."

The greeting was followed by a light punch on the shoulder.  Then Ray's father headed back to the living room where the big screen TV featured a perpetually playing ball game, and a bottomless can of beer sat on the coffee table.  This less than overwhelming demonstration was about as much affection as Ken Mosley had in him.  Ray didn't hold it against his father.  People were what they were.  What he didn't get from his father, his mother was more than happy to supply.  But her presence was another feature of Clemensville that had been relegated to the past.

Ray's parents weren't the best actors, but their performance before a distracted audience of one had sufficed.  He learned over the phone while away at school that their marriage had been a farce the past several years, running exclusively for his benefit.  Until he was old enough to understand.  Until he was too far away for his pleas to sway their decision.  This was Ray's first time home since his family had splintered.  He was to spend half the summer with his father in Clemensville, the other half with his mother at her new residence in Florida.

"I think the Braves are going to do it this year."

"Me too, Dad."

"Looks like this summer is going to be a real scorcher."

"Yeah, it sure does."

They had exhausted their two standard subjects of conversation.  Nine months had passed since they were last in the same room together.  There was much to catch up on.  Both of their lives had metamorphosed.  But they were used to communicating through Ray's mom.  That had been the set routine.  Speaking directly to one another for prolonged periods of time would take some getting used to.  There would be a lot of things to grow accustomed to this summer.

"I'm gonna take a walk, Dad.  Check out the old stomping grounds.  I can't believe Howard's closed down."

"He died."

"Oh.  But still, did they have to replace the malt shop with a Laundromat?"

"People need clean clothes."

"Yeah, I guess they do."

Ray didn't have a great many people to visit.  None to be precise.  His only hometown friend still had many more years of his prison term to serve.  He and Carter would not be spending this summer hanging out in Howard's Malt Shop.  They would not be sharing future plans with each other, or reminiscing about days gone by.  Childhood was officially over.

Ray found himself walking a familiar course, deep into the woods, towards the lake.  A light but persistent drizzle had kept away the usual throng.  The young and carefree of Clemensville spent the majority of their summer hours frolicking here.  From late autumn through the blustery months of winter, it would belong to Ray and Carter alone.  Except for one night, when they managed to lure a visitor.

In another place, amongst people who were more open minded, Ray and Carter would not necessarily have chosen one another for best friendship.  But in Clemensville, they were not been given many options.  Both of them being labeled outcasts from their earliest days, they were either to hang together or go it alone in a town small enough for everyone to know their names, but no one uttering them except in derision.

Their bond was based on believing themselves to be better than what they had been born into.  Even if they existed in their neighbors' eyes solely as creatures to feel superior to.  This was because their fellow Clemensians were ignorant people, decades behind the rest of America.  They were frightened by all that was different, anything that required adaptability on their part.  It had taken till almost the turn of the century to make their one dream come to fruition.  The actuality of that dream was four connected businesses.  Vic's Video Rentals, Bob's Auto Parts Store, Henry and Jenny's Ice Cream Parlor, and a Gap.  The Clemensville mall.

Carter and Ray knew that there was far more to the world.  How could there not be?  Being the starting quarterback or prom queen of Clemensville High could not possibly be the apex of existence.  They were treated as freaks, and though it hurt at first, the friends assured each other that they wouldn't want it any other way.  The alternative was to be the same as these people.  Just about anything was preferable to such a fate.

Carter had possessed this self-assurance from the time he was a toddler, but the young Ray had not been so sure of himself.  As a child, the cruel words and turned shoulders of classmates would send him running home with tear-filled eyes.  His mother would give comfort, show that it was possible for him to be loved.  His father would tell him not to be such a sissy, and to cut out that racket which was drowning out the ball game.

Then Ray befriended Carter, a kindred spirit who was also no stranger to teasing and taunts.  Carter taught him to think better of himself than others did.  He taught Ray the meaning of defiance, helped turn his shame to pride.

Things went along relatively smoothly until high school, when they realized how similar they were to their peers in one important aspect.  The hormones of Ray and Carter raged as strongly as anybody else's.  The two friends could not fail to be stirred by the passing stream of girls who flaunted budding sexuality, but cast not a single flirtatious peek in their direction. 

For the average pubescent Clemensian male, the return of a smile; the holding of a girl's hand; or a card on Valentine’s Day was sufficient panacea for runaway longing.  For the shunned and secluded, a stronger sign of affection was necessary.

If the brothel displaced by construction of the Clemensville mall had still been in business, things may have turned out differently.  Certainly, a dose of tolerance in a couple of girls' hearts would have altered fate's path.  But neither whores nor humanity were in much supply, and that is why the decision was made and the plan hatched.

Michelle Clark was right down the middle.  Not quite pretty or ugly, neither fat nor thin, not dirt poor but also far from the glitter of middle class status.  Yet her aspirations were nothing less than full throttle.  What she longed for was to be included in the beautiful people's games.  In order to fit in where neither her genes nor fortune had placed her, Michelle did what she could to sneak in.  She slept around with guys who wouldn't pay her any mind any other way, and had gotten hooked on the alcohol consumed to make this bearable.  For such behavior she gained a well-earned reputation that spread so far, it even reached the ears of freaks.

It was Carter who came up with the idea.  Ray possessed the more fertile imagination, but his daydreams usually remained unrealized due to lack of decisive action.  Carter felt restricted enough as things were, so felt little inclination to hold himself back. 

The plan was simple enough.  After a few drinks together guards would be let down, inhibitions would lower, and things would happen naturally.  This was the conclusion reached by Carter, and after Michelle agreed to join them by the lake to sample his uncle's bootleg moonshine, Ray saw no reason to disagree.  But very little of what was to take place that night would be natural. 

Ray came to a stop.  He now stood in the same spot where the heinous acts had been undertaken.  A year ago he foolishly thought that he knew himself, what he was capable of, where he would draw the line.  Only in his darkest nightmares could he possibly be capable of what had taken place.  As he would learn, not all nightmares required that one be asleep.

It seemed reasonable and typical that the loss of their respective virginities would be a joint effort.  They had worked in tandem since kindergarten, the strengths of one compensating for the weaknesses of the other.  Their "double date" started off smoothly enough, with hits from a jug of liquor taking the place of conversation at first, then eventually facilitating chatter.  But in attempting to make the transition from drinking buddies to lovers, things began to go awry.  Ray wanted to call it a night once it became apparent that their attempt at seduction had failed. He was willing to accept that at least they had ventured, though nothing had been gained.  But he kept this opinion to himself, for he didn't want to wimp out and break their pact to wake up the next morning as men of the world. He figured that Carter would eventually come to his senses.  Instead, Carter willed that their plan of action be taken to completion by any means necessary.  Ray followed his friend's instructions, just as limbs automatically obey the decrees of the brain.

"I better head home now", Michelle had said on that fateful night.  "Thanks for the invite, guys.  This is some really kick ass stuff."

"My uncle makes the smoothest moonshine below the Mason Dixon line", said Carter.  "But let's not break up this party just yet. Not when we're only beginning to get to know each other."

"If I drink any more I'll puke up every last drop.  And whatever we learn about each other now will be forgotten by tomorrow.  This stuff could make you forget your own name."

"This has been a lot of fun", said Ray, and indeed it had been.  Ray had initially been concerned that they would have little to talk about, causing Michelle to quickly grow bored with them. But their personalities turned out to mesh relatively well.  It was possible that they had actually found themselves a new friend.

"You know, I expected you guys to be weirder, the way you always keep to yourselves.  But you're okay.  Of course, that could just be the moonshine talking."

"We're kept to ourselves as much as we keep to ourselves", said Ray.    

"Huh?"

"I'm too drunk to say that again, but it definitely made sense in my head."

The three of them laughed.  Carter refilled Michelle's glass.

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to", she said in a casual, almost playful manner.

"What do you mean?"  Carter seemed genuinely perplexed by the statement.

"You've heard the football players talking about me.  No doubt about that.  You figured you could work out a similar deal for yourselves."

Michelle's frank words, stated without judgement, reminded Ray of the evening's original intent.  The combination of potent spirits, easy conversation, and light-hearted laughter had temporarily put it out of mind.  Now it was back to the forefront of everyone's thoughts.

"We're not trying to work out any deal here", Carter said.  "We're just hanging out, having a few laughs, and we thought you would make pleasant company."

"Is that right?"  Michelle seemed almost convinced.  Even Ray wondered if perhaps it was the truth.  The moonshine warming his insides made all scenarios feasible.  The fuzzier his surroundings became, the more muddled their motivation grew.  

"Sure is", Ray answered.

Carter finished off his glass in one gulp and shuddered from the kick.

"Like you said, we're okay guys.  No different than those jerks, I mean, those jocks you usually hang out with.  They aren't any better than us, are they?"

Michelle didn't answer right away.  The pause created tension, or at least that was how Ray perceived the situation.  Alcohol tended to shorten Carter's temper, which wasn't particularly long to begin with.

"No, not really", Michelle said.  "Good looks, great bodies and popularity aren't everything, I guess.  They aren't bad places to start, though."

Carter ran a hand through her hair.  "You're very pretty.  Do those jerks, I mean those jocks ever tell you that?"

Michelle's lips curled up slightly, but her attempted smile was clearly a nervous one.  She pulled her head away when Carter tried to touch her hair again, and his hand ended up on her thigh instead.

"I think we're going to be real good friends", he said.

"It's definitely time for me to go."

"No, you gotta stay just a little while longer."

"Sorry.  Maybe we'll do this again sometime."

Michelle started to get up, but Carter kept her down by clutching onto one of her breasts.  Ray was not surprised when she slapped Carter across the face.  He was, however, shocked when Carter responded by striking her back with closed fist, bloodying Michelle's nose and knocking her onto her back.

"Help me out here", said Carter fiercely.  Ray was temporarily mummified.  It was not supposed to go like this.  It was not supposed to happen by force.

"Come on.  You want to be a cherry your whole life?  If she can give it away to those assholes on the football team, then she can give it up to us.  We'll give it to her just as good as them. We deserve it as much as them.  I can't do this by myself, Ray.  Hold her down for ..."

Michelle's foot cut his plea short as it connected solidly under Carter's chin, sending him reeling.

"You fucking freak", she screamed as she stood up.  "How dare you touch me?  How dare you put your disgusting hands on me?  You're going to pay for this.  I'm going to make sure you're ripped apart limb from fucking mutant limb.  As if I'd ever let a monster like you touch me.  As if I'd even consider..."    

An instant later, Michelle lay once again on the ground.  Ray stared for a moment at the fist that had landed on Michelle's jaw. He had never hit anything that hard in his life, certainly not a girl's face.  Michelle's anger was certainly justified, but the words she chose to express it with had caused something in him to snap.  He would not stand to let himself or Carter be verbally abused.  Anyone who insulted them to their faces with no concern for consequences had better be prepared to swallow the words along with some blood.

Michelle was not likely bluffing when she said she would make certain they would be made to suffer the consequences of their actions.  As Ray looked down at her, his life seemed to be unraveling like a ball of yarn in the grasp of a kitten's claw.  They had gone too far too fast, and now there was no going back.  The time for apologies and letting matters lie had arrived and departed in the blink of an eye.  In its aftermath was a big mess that could not be cleaned up, only made messier.

Carter let down his pants.  He climbed on top of Michelle and began tearing at her clothes.  The booze and blows to the face should have been enough to sedate her, but Michelle was a lot stronger than she looked.  Either that, or else the desperation of her terror had kicked her adrenaline into overdrive.  She knocked Carter from off of her.  He was simply not capable of holding her down long enough to go about his awful business.  He looked at Ray with no attempt to mask how pathetic he felt.

"Help me."

And so Ray did.  He applied his strength to keep Michelle still while his best friend raped her.  When Carter rolled off a minute later, Ray straddled her to take his turn.  Michelle was no longer resisting.  She was hiding someplace deep inside of her psyche.  A place she had no doubt run to many times before.

Nerves if not conscience rendered Ray's passion ineffectual. As he looked down at the quietly sobbing girl beneath him, he could only think that she wasn't the only one who had good reason to cry. So, he rolled off of her.  It was not lust, but reality that had begun to sink in. 

They would be sent to jail.  They would be sentenced to the fate all freaks deserved - to live in a cage.

Killing her was mutually decided and agreed upon without a word said out loud.  It was too horrible a thing to talk about, but as for doing it, no other option presented itself.  They had their futures to think about.  Their entire lives had been spent dreaming of escape from this place.  Ray and Carter could have never conceived the possibility of ending up someplace worse, and refused to consider this now.

Ray lifted a heavy stone that had been lying peacefully beside the lake, serving no purpose other than to be part of the scenery. It was thrust down to shatter Michelle's skull.

The murder was less than five minutes old, a decision as how to best dispose of the body not yet made, when voices were heard. The party of three was about to grow.  There was no time for their crime to be hidden, so the scene would have to be quickly abandoned.  They began to run, but Carter was at a major disadvantage.  His left leg was almost two inches shorter than his right.  This, along with a right arm that ended with a two fingered appendage that resembled a claw more than a hand, were the crosses he had borne since birth.  The hunters (who were also up to illegal activities, since the season was over) had no difficulty overtaking Carter, even with their senses dulled by several six packs of beer.

Lack of pigmentation in his skin did not affect Ray's running speed.  He was therefore able to get away cleanly.  Once caught, Carter could have told of Ray's part in the evening's exploits at any time.  But he would never rat on his one and only friend.  Carter reasoned that Ray had more to be free for, since he was all set to begin studying film in sunny California.  Maybe he would finally get a tan, Carter had joked.  Ray felt sick about the whole thing and came close to confessing.  But instinct for self-preservation and Carter's reasoning silenced Ray's tongue.

"I was the one who initiated everything", Carter had said.  "You just followed my lead.  Why should both of us suffer?  I can handle prison, but you I'm not so sure about.  Take care of your business at college.  I'll be out before you know it."

It was true that Carter had led the charge the entire way.  Until it was time to flee.  Then he hadn't been fast enough to lead anymore.  He had fallen a distant second.  Michelle was of course, dead last.

Everybody in town was convinced that Carter couldn't and wouldn't have pulled off such an act by himself.  Ray and Carter were each other's shadows.  Wherever one was, there was the other. But Carter confessed to doing the deed alone, and the law took him at his word.

In the months to follow, Ray habitually re-lived that night in his thoughts and dreams.  He feared that the haunting memory would drive him insane.  This was almost welcomed, for insanity was usually accompanied by bliss.  But as time passed, he became acclimated to college life and the embrace of a community far more tolerant than the one left behind.  Ray's visions began to appear with decreasing frequency, for shorter duration, with lesser clarity.  His conscience was slowly but surely yelling itself hoarse. 

Now here he was, one year later, back at the site of his darkest hour.  Had his parents not broken up, Ray would have used any excuse to remain in California between his freshman and sophomore years.  A second option was to stay with his mother in Florida the entire summer.  But that would have been unfair to his father, who was unpracticed at being alone, who had uncharacteristically expressed a desire to spend time with his son. So, Ray complied.

He looked across the placid lake before him, the only other witness to his role in the defilement and deletion of a girl's life.  But Twainmark Lake was telling no tales.  Therefore, Ray stopped thinking of his guilt.  Instead, he thought back to a long ago day when innocence was not yet a faded memory.

"You're kind of cute."

"Huh?"  Ray was convinced that his imagination was playing tricks on him.  It sounded as if fellow third grade classmate Susie Bain had just called him cute.

"You heard what I said."

He resisted the urge to demand she repeat herself.  The girl whom he had the world's biggest crush on actually liked him back.

"I like your white hair and your pink eyes.  You remind me of my Gerbil, Rudy."

His joy vanished.  He had been tricked.  Susie was teasing the albino boy, just like everybody else.

"I'm not making fun", she said, having noticed the change in his countenance.  "I really mean it.  All these other boys look the same.  But you're different.  You're special.  You're ..."

"Cute?"  Ray had to hear it again.  He needed the confirmation.

"Yeah."

His smile returned and filled the classroom with its radiance. Then the voice came, first shouting, then singing.

"Hey, look everybody.  Susie and Chalk Face sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G."

Ray was no stranger to ridicule.  He turned towards Susie, but she was no longer by his side.  She was a stranger to the spotlight of humiliation and had decided not to stick around for the next verse.

Acceptance had been close at hand.  If Susie was able to see that there was a real person beneath the pale flesh, maybe everyone else would have come around as well.  But then the lone voice of Carter had risen above the din, alerting everybody and reminding Ray that he would never be allowed to belong.

The rain was picking up, so Ray cut his reflections of the past short.  He decided not to return home by the secluded path he had taken to the lake.  Instead, he walked the shortest distance, right through the center of town.  He strolled casually up Main Street, past the mall, where practically every single inhabitant of Clemensville was gathered.  There was a half price sale going on at the Gap, and it would take a lot more than a few raindrops to keep the townsfolk away from that.  A long line of people stood impatiently outside of the doors, hoping to purchase something before the stock was depleted.

Everybody's eyes fell upon Ray, as usual.  Not a word was said to him, only snide comments whispered under breaths.  This too was the norm.  But when he turned towards the crowd, this time no one looked guiltily away.  They felt that their superiority complexes were truly warranted now.  After all, they weren't looking down on a freak.  They were condemning a rapist and murderer of one of their own.  They had no proof and needed none and perhaps would have assaulted him in retribution had he not raised his sunglasses and held them at bay with his stare.

There was something different about Ray Mosley.  It wasn't how he looked, it was how he looked back.  There was a message issuing from his eyes that seemed to say - If I can take the life of one of you, I can take them all.  And nobody was willing to take him up on the challenge.  There was no telling what a freak was capable of.

Things were going to be weird.  So much had happened, so much had changed.  The world as Ray Mosley had come to know it was not the same.  It would never be again.

   

                                                      XXX

@mudhousebooks Patches of Grey - a novel by Roy L. Pickering Jr. Available in print and kindle editions at Amazon. #booktok #stockingstuffer ♬ Gray - Ari Bose

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Matters of Convenience by Roy L. Pickering Jr. (sold at Amazon)

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@mudhousebooks Coming soon one way or another: my latest novel - Second Shot #booktok #MSWL ♬ Second Chance - El DeBarge

LUCKY DAY

 

Lucky Day

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.  

 

 

Some days you can just do no wrong, thought Dan as he headed towards his girlfriend's apartment.  And for him, today happened to be one of them.

     His lucky streak started off first thing in the morning.  The radio station he listened to as he dressed for work was giving away concert tickets to see his idol, Bruce Springsteen.  All he needed to do was be caller number ninety-five.  He had a better shot at parting the Red Sea.

     The D.J. picked up on the first ring.  Dan would be sitting front row center.  He had never even tried to win anything from the radio before, but since it was the Boss, he figured it certainly wouldn’t hurt to try.  That figuring had turned out to be extremely understated.

     The day whisked by as Dan basked in the glow of his good fortune.  Plus it was an abbreviated one, because he needed to leave work early to make an appointment with his doctor.  Before going to the subway station, he went into the supermarket around the corner from his job.  Dan had a ritual to perform.

     Every day after work, Dan would come here and head straight towards the gumball machine.  It was filled with miniature replicas of NFL football helmets.  Dan had been putting quarters into it for the last six months, but to no avail.  He never got the helmet of his favorite team, the Green Bay Packers.

     Dan stood before his mechanical nemesis and fished through his pockets.  He knew he shouldn't be doing this.  He would have to borrow five dollars to be considered broke, yet he spent every day squandering precious coins.  He promised himself that this would be the last time.

     One quarter was all that Dan found in his pocket.  It no doubt could have been put to better use, such as helping to reduce his growing pile of dirty laundry at home, but nevertheless he kissed it to God just as he used to do with dropped candy when he was a boy.  Then he placed George Washington’s profile into the allotted slot.  One twist of his wrist and out came the plastic bubble.

     Unbelievable!  The helmet of the Green Bay Packers.  There was no denying it now.  This was definitely his lucky day.

     A short while later, Dan got off the train and headed towards his doctor's office.  He repeatedly tossed his prize into the air, alternating between his two hands.  Toss it with the right, catch it with the left.  Toss it with the left, catch it with the right. A block away from his destination, he misjudged a toss and the plastic bubble rolled under a parked car.  As he bent down to pick it up, his eye noticed a green piece of paper.

     A fifty dollar bill!  Lady luck definitely had the hots for him today.

     Dan was a man unaccustomed to such favorable fortune.  Not that he considered life to have given him less than he deserved, but it certainly had not given him more.  Not like his old friend Rick, who must have been born under the right star or something.

Over the years, everything from good grades to beautiful women to financial riches to inexplicable talent at a variety of vocations was afforded to Rick.  He excelled at everything he attempted, no matter how little effort he exerted or concern he held for the task.  Rick was always in the right place, it was always the right time for him.  He was adored by all whose paths he crossed, as if they sensed that they were in the presence of someone who had been touched by divinity.  As much as Dan admired the feats and triumphs of his friend, he would have loved to beat Rick in something just once, to do a single thing better, longer, faster, or first. 

     Two hours later, Dan was confronted with his least favorite aspect of living in New York City - rush hour on the subway.  Dan could think of preferable places to be.  War torn Iraq, for example.  Attica would suffice.  As long as he wasn't in a hurry and his destination was less than thirty blocks away, he usually walked.  But there were ninety blocks between the starting line of his doctor's office and finish line of his girlfriend's apartment.

     He did have fifty dollars in his pocket, so he could have taken a cab.  But those guys often did not have change for a big bill, and Dan didn't want to squander any of his new found cash just yet.  He decided to be frugal and endure the subway at the unholy hour of 5:00 in the afternoon. 

     A train pulled in just as Dan arrived on the platform.  The doors opened and the masses squeezed into the already filled car like a nostalgic, beer bellied, forty-year-old man trying to fit into his high school baseball uniform.  Dan was exhausted.  The doctor had put him through quite a work-out.  He would have given anything to be seated, instead of hanging from a straphanger like a side of beef in an over-packed meat locker.

     Then a miracle happened.  For whatever reason, the person seated directly in front of him chose to get up.  There were no senior citizens or pregnant women in sight to guilt Dan out of it. So he swiftly dropped into the seat, pleased as a baby drawing milk from his mother. 

     When he arrived at his girlfriend’s door, Dan reached into his pocket and retrieved the spare key she had recently given him.  This was as sure a sign as could be given that a relationship was getting serious.  Dan couldn't have been any happier about it.  He was crazy about Sharon.

     She wasn't expecting him.  Dan usually called before he came over, especially since her home doubled as her place of business, but today he hadn't.  He had something important to tell her, and wanted to do all talking face to face.  Besides, he didn't have any change on him to place the call.  One day he would have to invest in a cell phone.  But only out of absolute necessity, not because it was the trendy thing to do as he suspected was the reason why more than half of them were purchased.  He certainly saw no purpose to buying one that also served as a camera, stereo, television, fax machine, and massager.  There was such a thing as being too inventive in Dan’s opinion.  Alexander Graham Bell pretty much nailed it when he created the first telephone.  Push buttons were a nice improvement over rotary dialing.  Beyond that, the bombardment of additional features over the years was pure overkill.  Not everything needed to be elaborate.  Mankind had lost its ability to appreciate the fine art of simplicity.

     Dan entered his girlfriend’s apartment and gave his plastic bubble a pleased gaze.  Sharon knew all about the crusade he had been undertaking to get it.  She would be happy for him.  Maybe he would celebrate by taking her out to dinner.  He could certainly afford it now. 

     She was not in the living room or the kitchen, and the open bathroom door revealed that it was also empty.  Either she had run out to take care of an errand, or else perhaps she was taking a nap.  Lately it seemed she was always tired.  Well, not always.  Just when he was in the mood to make love. 

The dual sounds reached his ears just as his hand touched the doorknob to her bedroom.  Seconds later, his eyes confirmed what he thought he had heard and desperately hoped he had not.  Sharon was moaning as she did only during the heights of passion, in this case, courtesy of Rick.

     Dan's first impulse was to rush in and beat his friend to a pulp.  How could he do this to him?  How could she do this to him? How could they do this to each other?  And what was the name of that position they were in?

     The mighty charge that Dan made consisted of one step.  It took that long for him to remember that Rick spent hours in the gym building up an impressive grouping of muscles, so therefore could twist him like a pretzel if the occasion called for it.

     Dan closed the door, leaving his former best friend and best girl to do their business.  His heart felt leaden, his tear ducts threatened to erupt.  What a shame that something as pretty as love could turn out to be so shabby and cruel.

     Unable to think of anything else to do, Dan walked away.  With each step, his sense of betrayal grew stronger.  He had confided in Rick many times about how much he cared for Sharon.  Rick already had a gorgeous girlfriend of his own who was no less than a runway model.  And if he wanted to be with someone else, plenty of other women were more than willing to volunteer their services.  He should have considered Sharon off limits.  Granted, he was unfamiliar with the concept of limitations on his actions and achievements.  Still, there was no excuse for what Rick had done.

     Maybe he could come to forgive Sharon, though.  It seemed ridiculous to be considering such a thing, but Dan couldn't help it.  He was so madly in love with her that not even the sight of her in carnal embrace with another man was enough to convince him that it was over.  It couldn't be over.

     After all, he had cheated on her too.  His indiscretion had taken place one month earlier and he had been beating himself up over it ever since.  The woman had been so drunk, the opportunity given to Dan with such little effort on his part that he was regretfully unable to resist.  He had not been brave enough to confess his sin to Sharon, but he’d done everything he could since then to make it up to her.  Maybe he was now receiving his just desserts.  Maybe he and Sharon could start over again with a clean slate.  Yes, perhaps he would forgive her.

     But not Rick.  Not Mr. Physical Fitness, Mr. Casanova, Mr. Perfect.  No matter how much he possessed, he always wanted more.  And he always got it.  

     Dan took a moment to rein his resentment in.  It had not been easy to play the part of Rick’s best friend for these many years without being consumed by envy.  Dan had been forced to master the art of not begrudging or coveting the many bounties that came Rick’s way.  He learned to seek out the bright side of his own far less impressive set of circumstances.  And after he hooked up with Sharon, there was no more reason to be jealous of anyone.

So Dan managed to convince himself, just as he had done on many prior occasions that he was dwelling too much on the negative.  He reminded himself to recognize that things could certainly be worse for him.  He did after all have a pair of tickets to Bruce Springsteen coming his way, and fifty extra bucks were in his pocket, along with his treasured Packers' helmet. 

To top things off, there was the important news he had to share with Sharon, the secret he had been about to reveal before finding her in such a compromising position.  Sooner or later, she and Rick would both find out.  Dan's doctor had confirmed his suspicions.  He had contracted herpes.  He should have known there would be a price to pay for his single night of no strings attached and no protection worn passion.  No doubt he had already given his burden to Sharon, which meant that it was being transferred to Rick at this very moment.  Rick’s run of perfection would be coming to an end.  From now on, at least in one department, Rick would be no better off than Dan.

Some would call it poetic justice, others an eye for an eye, and there were those who would place it under the category of God's mysterious sense of humor.  Dan applied none of these labels, for he knew full well what the reason was for this latest turn of events.

This was his lucky day.

@mudhousebooks #BlackHistoryMonth #bookrecommendation ♬ original sound - Roy 📚📚📚

@mudhousebooks #BlackHistoryMonth #bookrecommendation ♬ original sound - Roy 📚📚📚

@mudhousebooks #BlackHistoryMonth #bookrecommendation #childrensbook #BookTok ♬ original sound - Roy 📚📚📚

@mudhousebooks

Happy Super Bowl Sunday, regardless of whether your favorite part of the day is watching 🏈 or Bad 🐰 or picking a cozy spot to read a good 📖.

♬ Jazz Instrumental - Marco Antonio

Forgot I wrote this

In looking through my emails for something completely unrelated, I found this bit of flash fiction that I wrote for the heck of it. I re-read it and like the darned thing. So here you go.

HIS NAME WAS BUD

By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

 

 

His name was Bud. He hated when random strangers addressed him as "buddy", so close to accidentally guessing his actual name. Of course, they did not know that his name was Bud, much less that it wasn't short for Buddy. It was an abbreviation of “Rosebud” and his mother picked the name from some old Black & White movie that he had never bothered to watch. He didn't know if his mother had expected a girl or decided on Rosebud as her child’s name regardless of gender. What mattered is that he could not very well go around allowing himself to be called Rosebud, so for better or worse, Bud it was.

It had mostly been for the worse. Life had been hard and mean to him so far. His father had not bothered to stick around long enough to find out that his mother would die giving birth to him. This meant being raised by an aunt on his mother's side until he turned 5 and she turned and took him to an orphanage, done with being responsible for the mistakes of others, family or not.

At 18 he was officially a man, out on his own, no direction or plan or clue as what to do next. Robbing a convenience store seemed like as good of an idea as anything else. Next time, if there was a next time, Bud would do a little more research to find out in advance if the guy behind the counter was likely to have a gun back there, and if he would be inclined to use it.

Getting shot in the gut hurt like hell because of course it did. Bud's big plan collapsed on itself and now he had nothing better to do than to sit on the floor, press against the rapidly leaking hole in his stomach, and wait to see if the cops or an ambulance would arrive soon enough to do him any good.

Bud looked towards the window for whoever might be coming to his rescue, but most of the view was blocked by stuff for sale, and the bit of glass he could see was too filthy to be transparent. His eyes were growing heavy, but he refused to let them close for good reason and fixed his sight on a rack of DVD's. Maybe one of the movies was the one his mom had picked his name from.

 Wouldn't that be something? 

Mama's Boy - a short story

 

For a good many years this story along with one named Dialogue were housed at a literary web site with the clever name of TimBookTu. That site is no more, so now for the first time ever here at A Line A Day I present my short story - Mama's Boy.

                                           MAMA'S BOY

                                               BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

 

       What would his mama say?

     What would she think if she could see him now, about to do what he was about to do?  She'd kick his butt good.  Toss it into the streets with no more hesitation than if he were the garbage.  His mother would be ashamed that he was her son.

     But she wasn't seeing this.  And he didn't have a choice in the matter.  He had wanted to be down with the Crypt more than anything.  Now he was.  That brought responsibilities along with it.  The lesson most stressed by his mother was that you live up to your responsibilities, no matter what.  That was how she had managed to raise half a dozen kids in this neighborhood with no man around and done just fine.

     Ricky was the last of those children to grow up, and the most difficult to get there.  His older siblings had made Mama proud, graduating high school, getting jobs with the city, marrying before kids were on the way.  They made things easy for their mother because they bent to her overpowering will.

     She had not been able to go six for six, however.  Ricky fought with his mother from day one, when he had to be forcibly removed from her womb.  A clear omen of things to come.

     When his mother commanded that he eat his vegetables, Ricky screamed for candy.  She told him to get to bed early, he wanted to watch late night talk shows.  When she demanded he hit the books, he read comics.  She insisted he clean up his act and stop getting detention, so he got himself expelled instead.  His mother had dreamt the impossible for all her children, that they go to college.  Ricky was her last hope.  He had not placed college very high on his list of priorities.  But at age thirteen, he joined a gang.

     That was six weeks ago.  Since then, he had done a lot of things his mother wouldn't approve of.  He had consumed alcohol and ingested drugs.  He had engaged in sex.  Ricky had robbed, and fought, and hurt people foolish enough to resist.  He had hurt people who didn't resist at all.

     If there was anything in his mother stronger than her will, it was the love she held for her children.  Ricky knew that despite the things he had done in the past, she would forgive him. But after what he was about to do?  He didn't think so.  This crossed the line not even a mother's love would venture beyond.

     Nevertheless, Ricky had chosen his path so now had to walk it. He wasn't willing to travel the long, arduous road his mother had tried to direct him towards.  He was in too much of a hurry.  Out on these streets is where he would stake his claim, where he would immediately be paid in full. 

     That's why Ricky was leaning against a fence, waiting to fulfill his latest duty as a member of the Crypt.  Any moment now the guy would be coming home, basketball in hand, cap turned backwards on his head, one pants leg rolled up to his knee.  And Ricky would make his first kill.

     He patted the gun which was held securely in the waist of his jeans, hidden from view by his overlapping shirt.  Ricky wondered what it would be like to kill a person.  What else was there to think about at such a time?

     Would he feel like more of a man, or less?  Would he feel regret and remorse?  Or only relief that he had accomplished his mission?  Would he like it?  Would he like himself?  Would he be able to do it?  If so, would any of the other questions matter?

     There he was.  Ricky could set his watch by him.  He was alone as usual.  The sun was down, the nearest streetlight out, no witnesses to be found. 

     Ricky moved closer. It was necessary to be as quiet as possible, because if seen, his intentions would be instantly known. But he couldn't be too far away.  Missing was not a luxury he could afford.

     When his foot hit the discarded soda can, a dozen car alarms and a marching band could not have made a more resounding clamor. Surprise was no longer his ally.  Neither was time.

     Ricky raised his arm and fired.  The bullet harmlessly flew over the left shoulder of its target, eventually imbedding itself in a wall of the tenement building behind him.  The second bullet released sunk deeply and with finality into soft flesh.  Its victim crumbled to the ground, his hands an ineffective dam to hold back the flow of blood.

     "Did you see that?", a voice asked.  "He just smoked that nigga."

     Apparently, there had been people around.  Ricky hadn't noticed them.  Who could blame him?  He was new to this.  Killing was a skill like any other.  You had to practice to get good at it.  Doing it right, doing it perfect, wasn't easy to achieve the first time out.  Novices tended to be sloppy.  They made amateurish mistakes like not observing witnesses; making unnecessary sounds that gave them away; missing their first shot, which could turn out to be their only one.  Cause if your mark was wearing a piece himself then he would get a chance, and you could end up lying on the ground bleeding your life away.  Just like Ricky was.

     He would never know what it was like to kill a person, but he would learn how it felt to be killed.  Voices around him slowly growing softer, the stars in the sky becoming fainter by the second.  The pain, overwhelming at first, then fading as well.  No chance to even be afraid, for Ricky had allotted his precious remaining moments to asking himself a question. 

     The police would come, the news would spread, the sordid tale would be told.  Ricky Tate, thirteen-year-old gang banger, tried to pop someone and got popped himself.

     What would his mama say?

DIALOGUE - a short story

The short story that you will find below was written when I wore a much younger man's clothes. It explores in light-hearted fashion that purposely exhibits stereotypes, the vast divide between people of different demographics. And how this societal gap can perhaps be bridged if we would merely be willing to engage in open, non-confrontational dialogue.

                          DIALOGUE

                    BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.

 

 

     The subway train rumbled steadily onward, an encapsulated mobile community beneath the city streets.  At four o'clock in the morning, few passengers were on board.  The most inhabited car was the one pulling up the rear which contained five people.  Sleeping against each other in a corner was a homeless, but nonetheless happily inebriated couple.  Immersed in conversation was a casually clad black youth of about 16, and a conservatively attired white man in his thirties.  The final member of the rolling soiree was a blonde woman in her late twenties, decked out in party gear of the ‘Bring Your Own’ variety, distractedly reading the latest romance novel to top the NY Times Best Seller list.

     "Yo, check it out, Larry.  Shorty is peeping you out.  Don't let me hold you back now.  I know you want a piece of that.  Her body is boomin’."

     "I don’t think so," said the urban professional to his eager travel companion.  “Attractive certainly, but I doubt we’d have very much in common.”

     "You don't think so?  Don't tell me you're a mo."

     "A what?"

     "A faggot, a queer boy."

     "I'm quite heterosexual, thank you."

     "Then what's the problem?” asked the young man, genuinely perplexed at Larry’s apathy.  “You gots to think that honey is fine."

     "She really isn't my type."

     "Not your type.  Check out those titties.  Those are fucking siliconed works of art.  And did you get a good look when she walked in?  That's one serious bootie.  Somewhere out there is a sista wondering who the hell stole her ass."

     Larry cast a glance at the leopard print tights that painted the woman's legs.  "She's a little too showy for me."

     "I know what homegirl can show me.  Man would I wax that ass good.  Now stop playing me.  I refuse to believe you don't want to get up on that."

     "I guess I find her appealing in a Staten Island sort of way," Larry conceded.

     "Damn straight you do.  Now go over there and bust a Wall Street rap on that fly honey."

     "I'm not interested.”  It seemed unnecessary to explain that he didn’t actually work on Wall Street.  The kid’s characterization was clear enough.  “Why don't you talk to her?"

     "First of all, she's a bit too old for me.  More importantly, she doesn't strike me as being into dark and lovely.  You know what I'm saying?"

     "I think so,” Larry said.  “But you see, I have a barrier just as great as you do."

     "Unless you're the lightest mulatto brother I've ever seen, I don't know what you're talking about."

     "You may have noticed that the necklace she's wearing has a cross on it.  I happen to be Jewish."

     "So, who gives a fuck?"

     "She very well might," Larry answered, a faint trace of resignation in his voice caused by a long ago love affair that ended for this very reason.

     "I'm not saying you should step to the girl and ask to meet her parents.  Just bullshit a little and get her digits.  Next week you take her out, spend a few bucks, and then butter that biscuit. I thought you guys were smart."

     "I resent that."

     "Resent what?"

     "The anti-Semitic tone of your last comment."

     "The what of my what?" 

     "Your statement was prejudicial against Jewish people."

     "By calling you smart?  You’d rather be called an ignorant nigger?  Look Lar, I ain't got nothing against Jews.  Man you guys are sensitive.  You own half the money in the goddamn world.  What you got to complain about?"

     "I got ...  I mean, I have just as much reason for complaint as you.  Jewish people have been persecuted as much as your race.  More so even."

     "You're talking out your ass now.  You guys own all the movie studios, the banks, the law firms.  That don't sound too much like suffering to me."

     "You ever hear of the holocaust?” Larry asked, his voice rising from the whisper they had been trying to maintain as the conversation took on an unexpectedly political tone.  “You ever read in the newspaper about what's going on in Israel?  The people there are living in a war zone."

     "You want to see a war zone?  Come by my hood.  Take a stroll through good old Harlem, USA.  And how about slavery?"

     "I'd take cotton picking over a concentration camp any day."

     "At least the holocaust ended.  Cotton just got exchanged for welfare checks and food stamps.  Alright, enough of this bullshit. Let's get back to the topic at hand.  Homegirl has been scoping you out since she sat down.  You got the fly gear.  Shorties be into that Brooks Brothers look nowadays.  It shows you got an important job.  It shows you have no shortage of Benjamins."  He noticed the perplexed look that passed over Larry’s face and clarified.  “Plenty of money.”

     "I happen to be involved in a serious relationship.  My girlfriend and I have been together for three years."

     "So?  You ain't down with OPP?"

     "Am I down with Opie?"

     The kid shook his head and suppressed a laugh at Larry's ignorance.  “Is your girl as dope as this one here?" he re-phrased.

     "Is dope a good thing?"

     "Yeah."

     "Not in such an obvious way," Larry confessed.

     "More importantly, is your girl here right now?"

     "No."

     "So then there ain't nothing to it but to do it."

     "Okay, enough of this badgering," said Larry testily.  "Why don't you go about the business you were conducting and leave me be."

     "Sure, Larry, no problem.  I was getting off at this stop anyway.  You like to work solo.  I can understand that.  Just take some good advice.  Whatever you do, make sure to wear a jimmy hat. That's a condom.  These are dangerous times we're living in."

     The knife being pressed against Larry's back was removed. 

     "I'll take that phat watch you got on too."

     Larry was somewhat puzzled over the description of his rather thin timepiece but did as he was instructed.  He grimaced as his hard-earned money went into someone else's pocket but was pleasantly surprised when the wallet he had handed over earlier was returned with his numerous credit cards still contained. 

     "Ordinarily I don't do this.  But I like you, Larry.  You're all right."

     The kid got up and stood by the doors as the train pulled into the next station.  "Shalom, my brother," he said when the doors opened.

     "Keep the faith, homey," Larry responded.

     The young bandit bounded off the train.  Larry watched after him for a moment, wondering how much his Rolex would go for uptown. When he turned back, he noticed that he was being observed.  The couple in the corner had awakened, or rather, they no longer pretended to be asleep now that the crime they chose not to witness was over with.  Larry shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he might very well have done the same thing had the situation been reversed.  Then he straightened his tie, brushed back his hair, switched to a seat on the opposite side of the car, and proceeded to introduce himself to the young woman without a hint of the caution or trepidation he would typically experience.  He would soon be exiting the train with no money in his pockets, but perhaps he could even the score by obtaining a phone number to fill the empty space.