Dodger



  DODGER

  A Novel

  by

  Dan Gallagher

  ********************************

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Copyright © 2012 Dan Gallagher

  Thank you for purchasing and downloading this eBook. Unauthorized sharing or sale of this document is strictly prohibited. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. Your support and respect for the property of this author is highly appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  **********

  To my parents, who always believed in me.

  I love you.

  **********

  -DODGER-

  PART ONE: THE REAL LIFE NEO

  1

  I STAND OUTSIDE THE BAR and drag my cigarette in agony. How did it come to this? What the hell am I doing here? I have no right, no stalwart purpose, no noble vengeance. All I have is a stupid CD and a stupid letter, both of which are trite, both of which make me look like a sniveling putz.

  I'm still giving them to her, though.

  Another long drag, but it's not enough. I should've had more beers. I should've done a shot. I should've smoked some crack. Something, anything to numb this singularity in my stomach, this super massive black hole collapsing in on itself, swallowing my entire being from the inside out. Why the hell is this so hard? What the hell is it about Kara that makes me go completely rubber?

  Oh yeah - she's the one.

  I finish the cigarette, stamp it out, and close my eyes as a raindrop hits me square in the forehead. Just my luck.

  I enter.

  Of course she's the first person I see. Why wouldn't she be?

  The tray of food in her hand slips ever so slightly as we make eye contact. I smile halfheartedly.

  “Hey, Kara.”

  “Hey...”

  She continues on and I can tell right away it's out of business and not rudeness, for she has several tables flagging her down to refill their two dollar drafts. I take a seat at the bar and order one myself, hoping more liquid courage will sprout the nerve I need to say what I want to say.

  Ten minutes go by. My drinking accelerates. She hasn't had time to come over yet and I'm pretending best I can to be into the Cubs game on TV but can't think about anything except the last things I said to her, the guilt trip I laid on her, the hurt and shame I practically forced her into feeling. She thought I was different, and I let her down, big time.

  Twenty minutes go by. She's still busy. I'm getting antsy. I shoot the shit with the bartender for awhile but my head's so far gone she may as well be speaking Chinese. Blah, blah, blah... you're hot but you're not Kara. Guzzle guzzle.

  Great. Now I'm drunk.

  Which is why this all went sour in the first place.

  “Jim.”

  I turn and she's there. I smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Awkward pause. She's great at breaking them, though. “So what's up? How've you been?”

  “I've been... good. Real good. I have some, a couple things, for you, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  I rummage through my backpack, find the letter and the CD, extend them proudly. “So, here you go. I finally finished, well, it's a rough cut, but it's that demo I was going to record. It's finished. You were a big inspiration in me finishing it, so I thought you'd like to have the first copy.”

  “Oh!” She takes it and reads the back of the case, the names of the songs. Smiles that smile that turns me to rubber. I ramble on:

  “And then also, this is just a letter I wrote you. Explaining why I'm sorry about how everything went down. You know. Between us. I just... I wanted you to know how sorry I am. It's all in the letter.”

  Before she can say anything I'm hugging her, tightly as if it's the last time, ninety eight percent sure that it is.

  “That's all I wanted to say, Kara. I miss you. I'll... I'll see you.”

  And with that I leave, feeling more depressed than before, when I at least had an aura of mystique surrounding me.

  Now I just look like a little bitch.

  The sky opens up and showers Wrigleyville with God's tears. As I walk and smoke, my own tears slowly join them.

  God, I'm an idiot.

  My stomach is knotted to the nines and only one thing can relieve the tension – more booze. It comes in the form of a trusty liter of dirt cheap vodka, and mixed with some grape Gatorade it's like heaven in a glass. An ambrosia salad. A holy grail. I have chosen wisely.

  I can't stop thinking about it. About her. About Kara.

  God.

  How did this one girl hit me so hard? I'm a rock. My heart is protected by a wall of steel surrounded by a forcefield wrapped in spikes dressed with barbed wire guarded by a dragon wearing a bullet proof vest. She slayed him like she slayed me and did flips and somersaults over all obstacles to get right up in there, hand on the button, finger on the switch. Mission? Destroy. Target? My heart.

  Drink.

  This sucks.

  The world is divided into pluses and minuses, positives and negatives, drugs and addicts.

  She is my plus. She is my positive. She is my drug.

  I'm addicted.

  As the waves of vodka wash over me one thought throbs through my head and that's if I can't have Kara, I might as well die.

  And maybe, just maybe, I will.

  Drink.

  I wake up the next morning and consider going to the hardware store for some heavy duty rope to fancy myself a heavy duty noose, but decide I should probably go to work instead. The hardware store's closed anyway, and I really can't afford heavy duty rope right now. Maybe after my shift.

  I work at an American contemporary restaurant waiting tables, and it sucks. People are spoiled brats. Everyone's allergic to everything. The general population still hasn't adopted the twenty percent tipping policy. I occasionally spit in people's food.

  It's all insignificant anyway. All I care about is Kara, her eyes looking into mine, her crooked smile smiling at some stupid inane comment I just made. Her jumping on my back without warning. Me snapping the rubber band around her wrist. Her kisses. Our wild, inebriated sex.

  I'm in agony.

  The volume has been turned down as I do my job aimlessly. Greet, explain, order, refill. Repeat. Some kid makes an asinine comment about how long it took me to get their drinks and I could care less. His ignorance rolls off me like the most unimportant bead of sweat to ever exist. Another customer says her food is cold, and instead of taking it back to the kitchen I simply mutter, “Life is cold. That's life on your plate, Miss.” She can tell I'm having a bad day and keeps her trap shut.

  It's slow and I'm bored so I'm at the front desk hanging out with Heather the hot hostess, conjuring up creative ways to off myself. She's not very helpful.

  “Jump off a building?”

  “Nah, he's scared of heights.”

  “Head in the oven?”

  “His oven's electric.”

  “Wrist slit?”

  “Uh... maybe.”

  I told her I'm thinking of having a guy in a story I'm writing commit suicide, so she doesn't get all suspicious and start asking questions. That's the last thing I need, people giving a shit. Can't a guy just envision his bitter end and noodle the necessary steps to achieving it in peace?

  Suddenly a man in a ski mask enters. Hmm that's weird, I think, it's September but it's not that cold.

  As he reveals a handgun it dawns on me: yup, robbery.

  “All right, everyone put their hands up, goddamn it!”

  Heather and I are the two closest to
him and our hands shoot upward in unison. He alternates pointing the gun at us, her then me, her then me. Then at everyone else.

  Hands have gone up all over the restaurant. It's not that big and we're not that busy, so this asshole has time on his side. He goes right up to the bartender and orders her to clean out her drawers. I hold back a smile and glance at Heather – she's terrified. I offer the best look of reassurance I can muster.

  The masked man has all the bar money and is now collecting wallets from the patrons. Obviously this guy has seen Pulp Fiction. He's moving fast, but I wish to God he'd move even faster. I've got beers to drink, pot to smoke, and a bottle of sleeping pills to pick up. Perhaps a straight razor. Hell, maybe even that rope.

  He's got all the wallets and is slowly backing up to the front door. Finally. He looks around one more time... and makes dead on solid eye contact with me. He squints. I freeze.

  “You,” he says, approaching. “You're a waiter here?”

  I stay frozen. “Yeah.”

  “Give me your cash.”

  Ordinarily I would hand over my cash, debit card, driver's license and bus pass, but the fact that this asshole has already scored all the money in the restaurant and is still asking me for mine is not cool. Fucker.

  “Sorry, man,” I say. “I've only had credit card transactions today.”

  He squints again, probably because he doesn't understand that for a waiter all credit card transactions equals no cash, but he doesn't deter and steps closer.

  “I said, give me your cash, motherfucker!” He cocks the gun.

  Ordinarily I'd shit my pants, but my mental state of anguish coupled with my heartbreak coupled with my hatred for this son of a bitch somehow keeps my bowels intact.

  “Dude, I have no cash,” I say. “You've made enough money today anyway. So why don't you just, you know... fuck off!”

  I scream the fuck off part without meaning to but before I can apologize, the gun goes off. Instinct or intuition or something else all together makes me veer left, and as the bullet whizzes past me into the wall, I make my move. I grab the gun, aim it upward, and bring my knee up right into the masked bastard's balls. The pain forces him to let go and suddenly I've got the gun. I flip it and point it at him.

  “Give me your cash, motherfucker!” I scream as he nestles his testicles. “Come on, you piece of shit! Huh?! What?!”

  He attempts a punch but he's weak and I easily sidestep it, then bring the gun down on his head, hard. He's out for the count.

  “Huh?! Huh, motherfucker!?”

  I kick him in the ribs out of frustration, partially situational, but mostly general.

  I kick him again.

  And again.

  It's then I realize I could've just let him shoot me.

  Damn.

  It's only a matter of minutes before the police arrive. They say they won't tell anyone I roughed up the perp because I probably saved several lives with my heroic act. I could care less. The magnitude of the accomplishment is downplayed, at least in my mind, because I still feel utterly and completely empty due to the whole Kara thing. It's eating me up inside.

  I listen to the witnesses give their eyewitness accounts and they're all saying the same thing.

  I dodged the bullet.

  Literally.

  At point blank range.

  It was miraculous, a miracle.

  I'm like Jesus and Neo all at once.

  I'm a hero.

  News vans start to pull up, and as the reporters file out, one thought races through my mind.

  I am now a celebrity.

  Celebrities always get what they want.

  All I want is Kara.

  2

  I'M IN MY SHIT A