tendencies in a while. I prefer neat
to train wreck. I go ahead and clean
up, and, man, does it feel great to brush
my teeth, something I haven’t done since
yesterday. I’ll take my toothbrush with
me, along with two changes of clothes.
It strikes me that sometimes the little
things can mean a whole lot. Maybe if
I focus on those for a while the big stuff
will rectify itself. Okay, maybe not, but
it’s better than stressing over crap
beyond my ability to change. I grab
my cell phone charger and laptop, too.
I might need some entertainment
if things happen to be slow. On my way
out of town, I stop by the grocery store,
grab a frozen pizza, some lunch meat,
and bread. Self-sufficient, that’s what I am,
not to mention suddenly ravenous.
I happen to arrive at the range just
behind a UPS truck, which pulls right up
to the office door. The driver waits
for me to meet him and sign for the long
narrow package. There’s a rifle inside,
that much is obvious. Turns out it’s Gus’s
old gun—Fiona!—returned from the smith,
almost as good as new. He’ll be one happy
camper when he sees it again, that much
I know. I lock it in the rifle cabinet,
close up the office, and head to the house
to feed my aching belly. While the pizza
bakes, I call Alexa, who’s already home
from school. The sound of her voice stirs
something inside. I really want to see her.
We Talk
Until the pizza browns, while
it cools, while I wolf it down.
I tell her Uncle Jessie should
pull through fine, about
the likely upcoming wedding.
“You’re invited, of course.”
You’d better be careful. Weddings
tend to bring out the romance
in people. Then again, I’d kind
of like to see you romantic.
Good thing she can’t see me
blushing. “What do you mean?
I am the most romantic guy
I know. You just wait.
I’ll show you romantic.”
She laughs that deep, husky
laugh of hers. Awesome. It’s a date.
Hey. I’ve got some news for you.
The school board voted to retain
Perks. Mr. DeLucca is livid and
vowed to reopen the challenge
when he’s elected. Dictator.
We extend the conversation
for almost an hour, talking about
everything from books to our families
to guns to politics—most of which
we happen to agree on, thankfully.
I really don’t want to argue with her,
or anyone, and she makes that easy.
The few things we don’t see eye
to eye on matter hardly at all.
Eventually, she gets called
to dinner, and I’m sorry we have
to sign off. “Unless Uncle Jessie
happens to take a turn for the worse,
I’ll be out here all day tomorrow.
Come out, I’ll let you touch my weapon.”
More lovely laughter. Excellent.
Practice makes perfect, I hear.
Hey, Matt? I love you.
As soon as I hear the click,
I say, “Hey, Alexa? I love you, too.”
Because I realize I do.
In True OCD Fashion
I clean up the kitchen.
Quin should be very pleased.
Then I fill the dog bowls.
Where are those mutts, anyway?
They’re usually waiting
on the step come dinnertime.
But when I open the door
to call them, I hear furious
barking in the distance.
I step out into the yard to try
and tune in to their location.
I think they’re down by the office.
There’s a thin, sharp crack.
Gunshot? No doubt. I start
toward the truck. Change my mind,
go inside, grab my phone, dial 9-1-1.
Then I head downhill on foot.
When the parking area comes
into view, I recognize the car.
It belongs to Gus. Neither he
nor the dogs are anywhere in sight,
but when I circle to the front
of the building, I can see
he’s broken his way inside.
An Intelligent Person
Would stay put.
Wait for the cops.
But like an idiot,
I push through the door.
The lights are on—did he stop
them on before? “Gus?
That you? What are you
doing here? We’re closed.”
Don’t want to startle the fool,
who’s rummaging around
in the gun locker room.
’Course it’s me, asshole.
But don’t you fucking
come back here! I mean
it! I’m gonna do this.
But first I want Fiona.
She’s mine, goddamn it.
Come ’ere, you bitch!
He’s totally out of his mind
wasted. Uncle Jessie could talk
him down. Not sure I can.
But for some odd reason,
I think I should try.
“Hey, Gus. If you chill,
I’ll open the rifle cabinet for you.
I’ve got the key right here.”
He stops his thrashing,
and the sudden silence is eerie.
All right then. ’S only fair.
’S my grandpa’s gun an’ I want
her. That damn Jessie thinks
he can keep Fiona, I’ll kill him.
Where is that fucker, anyway?
I make my way cautiously
to the locker room door.
“I’m coming in, okay?
Uncle Jessie’s in the hospital.
He had a heart attack.”
Gus, whose attention
has been directed toward
the rifle cabinet, turns
to face me. They say certain
sights make your blood run
cold. Mine freezes solid.
I force my voice steady.
“What are you doing, Gus?”
He’s Wearing a Vest
And strapped to it are what
appear to be explosives. On his hip
is a holstered gun. He smiles,
his eyes fill with crazy, and
suddenly I can’t breathe.
Hey, Junior. Didn’ you know
I’m a dee-mo-lition expert?
Goddamn army taught me a thing
or two. Goin’ blow this place
to kingdom come, and I’m goin’
along for the ride. Ain’t nothing
left to hang on for anymore.
Think, think, think. Where are
those damn cops? “Take it easy,
okay? Why this place, Gus?
I thought you liked it out here.”
I thought I did, too. Thought I liked
that sonofabitch Jessie. Then he went
and sold me out to that lawyer.
Bastard took all my money. Every
red cent. Then he tells me he don’
think he can help me. That whore’s
gonna take away my kids forever.
Just talking about it starts him
twitching
. He lifts up and down
on his toes, his hand moves
toward his pocket, and one word
comes to mind. Trigger.
Inhale. Exhale. Palms up, palms
down won’t help me now.
“Come on, Gus. There are other
lawyers. If it’s money, maybe
we can hel—”
No! No more lawyers. No more
money. No one can help me now,
so I’m going out with a bang. Ha-
ha. Bang, get it? My only regret
is your uncle isn’t catching
this freight train with us.
Us? Holy shit. He means to take
me with him! I start backing up
slowly, but when I see his hand
move again toward his pocket,
I turn and run and
Where Am I?
I’m awake,
at least I think I am.
Everything’s dark.
Everything’s silent.
Dead silent. Dead.
Wait. Am I dead?
The last thing I remember was . . .
Percussion! An incredible
blast of noise and a mad
thrust of energy. It was . . .
Gus. I must be dead.
But I can’t be dead.
I’m conscious.
Concentrate.
I’m lying on something.
Firm, not hard.
Not the ground.
Bed?
Try to move.
Can’t, not much, but now
I’m aware of my hands.
I can feel my fingers.
Pretty sure they’re all there.
I’m breathing. Yes. Inhale.
There’s a smell, familiar,
but not of home. Antiseptic.
Bleach. The odd scent
of oxygen. Hospital.
That’s it! I’m in the hospital.
Awake. Aware. In the hospital.
I can feel. I can think.
So why can’t I see?
Am I blind? Oh, God,
did he make me blind?
And why can’t I hear?
No chatter. No footsteps.
No whoosh of machines.
No squeak of bedsprings.
What else did he take from me?
I try to move again,
but I must be strapped down.
Either that or all that’s left
of me is my fingers. No pain.
That’s good. I can unhinge
my jaw. But when I open
my mouth, no sound comes out.
At Least, I Don’t Think
Any sound came out, because now
there’s movement around me.
Someone touches my hand,
and I know it’s Mom, the feel
of her skin so familiar, plucked
from recollection. “Help me,”
I want to say, and maybe I do.
But I can’t hear my voice,
can’t see Mom’s face. I’m desperate
to know what’s wrong with me,
but all she can do is stroke my arm,
and I imagine her talking to me,
telling me everything will be okay,
be calm. And I try. For her.
But I’m scared. So scared.
Do I have legs? I work real hard,
and my right foot jerks.
Oh my God, is there a left one?
“Help me, Mama.” Instead,
I feel her move away, replaced
by someone else, and now
comes a rush of contentment.
Not quite pleasure, but close.
At least they’ve got good drugs
in here. Going, going . . .
Time Has No Meaning
Not in this place.
I rise up into soundless,
sightless consciousness.
Have no clue how long
I’ve been in suspended
animation. I find I can lift
my hands and I bring them
to my face, most of which
seems to be covered with
gauze. Bandages swaddle
my head, cover my eyes.
Maybe I won’t be blind
when those are removed.
Or maybe I’m still going to die.
I lie as motionless as possible
so they don’t put me back
under. I swear if I make it,
the first thing I’m going to do
is tell Alexa I love her.
I think she’s been here.
I can smell her perfume
afloat the antiseptic.
Will I ever see her face
again? Damn. Popped
my own bubble. Why would
I think Alexa—or any girl—
would want a sightless me?
I consider life minus eyes.
I could never drive again,
never shoot, never ride
my bike along the river.
And that makes me think
of Hayden on a blanket . . .
No. Not Hayden. Alexa.
My sweetest Alexa, hot and
luscious in my bed. I’m crazy
with need for her. Kissing
her face, her neck, down
over her belly, close to that
special spot between those
beautiful legs, and almost there
when “Back in Black” interrupts
us. Now it’s Luke I see and
always will, with or without
functioning eyes, his own eyes
forever sightless, and I know
redemption is lost to me. . . .
And I Ascend
From the depths again.
Up, up, into awareness.
But there’s something
different this time,
somewhere in the darkness.
Sound. A slight vibration.
a-a-a-a
I focus, give it my complete
attention, and it grows into
a low rumble.
A-a-a-a.
It’s the first sound of any
kind I’ve heard since . . .
whenever, and I rejoice.
A-A-A-A.
What is it? Not mechanical,
I don’t think. More vocal.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
Can you hear me if you are?
A-A-A-l
I wish I could see. “Can you
come closer?” I do think
the rumble is a voice. A man’s?
A-A-A-l-l-f
Low. Familiar. I know it.
Dad? No. Uncle Jessie? No.
Younger.
A-A-l-l-f-f-a
And suddenly it sinks in.
“Luke?” I’ve either gone crazy
or they’re upping my meds.
Alphatryptonites
It can’t be! “Luke? Where
are you? I can’t see you.
It’s too dark. Luke! What
is it? What do you want?”
Everything falls completely
silent again. “No! Don’t go!”
Comes a whisper,
Alphatryptonites forgive.
Stunned
I can only pretend to process
what just occurred—or didn’t.
I don’t believe in otherworldly
anythings. There was no Luke.
So why did I call out to him?
I’ve got some major shit embedded
in my psyche, that’s for sure.
Who knows what opiates might
dislodge? On the other hand,
a low haze of pain shimmers.
When was the last time they gave
me anything? I need answers,
damn it, not hallucinations. “Luke?”
But of course, no answer will come.
Whatever that was h
as deserted me.
Although, wait. If that was, indeed,
a piece of my psyche, I hope it left
the good stuff behind. Is there good stuff?
As I lie here, surrounded by suffocating
darkness digesting possibilities,
I may not be able to see, but a couple
of things have become very clear.
I can hear something, and not some
inexplicable thing, but some external
corporeal noise. It’s muffled, almost
a whisper of conversation or maybe
a television. I’ve exited the well
of total silence. The other thing is
even more important. No, it’s vital.
Either some ghost of my little brother
just traveled light-years, traversing
the wilderness of death to forgive me,
or I have forgiven myself.
After
It’s been three months since Augustus
Lee Swanson went out to the Turner
Shooting Range looking for some
warped form of justice. Experts have
profiled him, and while they might
have argued exactly what set him off,
they all agreed post-traumatic stress
disorder was a contributing factor.
I could’ve told them that. What
saved most of the building—and me—
was his triggering the device while
still inside the locker room, containing
most of the shrapnel and much of
the explosion’s force. Had I not chosen
to run in the opposite direction, well,
who knows? That’s the good news.
Not so good? Major mistake, and
one I’ll remember in case I’m ever
again hauling ass away from a bomb,
was glancing back over my shoulder
just about the exact second everything
blew. I remember none of this, of course,
but when shards of wood and metal
went flying, my face became a target.
Small splinters hit my left eye, while
a larger projectile punctured my right
cornea. With a transplant, my vision
will improve immensely, at least
that’s the promise. Right now, it’s like
peering through sheer dark curtains.
As for my hearing, I’m not completely
deaf. I mean, if you shout at the top
of your lungs, I can pick out a few
key phrases. It may get better with time,
but maybe not. But, hey, technology
has done wonders with hearing aids.
So what if I look like a decrepit old man
when I’m barely old enough to vote?
I’m slowly getting used to the idea
that I’ll never exactly be normal again.