WHAT IS RAGE?
Hi again. With RAGE dropping in nearly a week, and around Christmas, I wish to share a story from the chapbook. At the end of the story, there is a button to preorder RAGE. It may not arrive by Christmas, but I will mail your signed copy ASAP. I appreciate your readership this holiday season.
RICOCHET
Frankie greets me on the tiny concrete slab outside his trailer. He has huge pupils. Unfocused. A stained wifebeater reveals slender, yet defined arms. His hair is messy, and his cheeks are sunken. His basketball shorts are unwashed, covered in dirt and grime. He has changed since high school. Strong, athletically inclined. Now? He looks dope sick.
Also, he’s waving a gun around.
I drop my bike into the overgrown lawn and powerwalk over. I’m already sweating beneath this Goodwill suit. I have a job interview soon and want to smoke weed afterward. The probation officer says this is my last shot, or bad things will happen. I’m anxious as hell. I’ll drink a gallon of water and piss clean. I got this.
“Ayy Brady,” Frankie says. He lowers the gun and reaches for a container on the ground. Ammunition rattles like angry bees.
“It’s 7:30 in the goddamn morning,” I say. “Shouldn’t you eat breakfast or something?”
“Breakfast,” Frankie says. “They didn’t need it. Al Capone, John Dillinger. Clyde Barrow.”
I scoff. “You know me. Pacifist.”
Frankie sits on the mildewed grass. Cross-legged in respite. He begins to load the magazine. He clears his throat and begins his classic gangster accent. A white trash Tony Montana.
“What troubles you, consigliere?
“I need some cash…some bud, too.”
“Thought your ass was on paper?”
“If I get the job, I’m good. The interview is in 30.”
Frankie stays silent while loading up the pistol. The pellets clink as they slide in. Wayward pellets vanish forever in the unkempt lawn. He engages with the slide of the BB gun. Damn, makes me shiver in my skin.
“Ok, I see you. Do what makes you feel good.”
I start my stride toward him, then the door. I say to him in passing, “Backpack in your dresser?”
‘Yo,” Frankie shouts. “Don’t air my business like that, capisce?”
“Sorry,” I say and pause. “I’m trippin’ over this thing. I’d appreciate a hoagie, a beer, and a blunt for lunch, Frankie.”
Frankie rises. The pellets clatter onto the concrete behind him. He flashes a mocking grin. I can’t tell if he’s a goblin or a goon. My Casio blips at quarter hour. I reinstate my intent.
“A Jackson bill and a dime bag. Small bud. You won’t even know it’s gone.”
“You take anything more than that,” Frankie chides. He waves the gun in my direction. Shaky, but shots are ready to fire. “I take your ass like a champ.”
“Jokes galore,” I scoff. My asshole still puckers.
I pass by his oafish body and into the trailer. I feel the heat from his skin, the musk, and his body’s muscles. Goosebumps on my Inside the trailer, there is something else. I’ve always known Frankie as a minimalist, but this is something else.
The living room is more vacant than mine. There is no TV. Not even a couch. The knobby green carpet is scuffed and stained with sweat. Dumbbells and a weighted vest stand in the corner. A steel-fold-up chair beneath a window. You can see where Frankies’ sweat absorbs into the carpet. A resolute, yet gross, workout. I note the scuffs and gouges on the wall and continue inside.
The kitchenette. It is filthy. Stale beer cans and filmy counters. Trash, junk mail, and other things to draw flies. Everyone’s got their thing. Sink with a handful of dishes. No soap or sponge. The chore that doesn’t get done, turns into a bad habit. For me, it’s laundry. Call the kettle black.
Back in better times, he would shadowbox in our old cul-de-sac. Back in our youthful, healthier years, we started drifting apart in school. Back before drugs, bad friends, and petty crimes, we were both a bit better off. This is better off. No wasted space here. I feel that in my gut.
Frankie’s bedroom. A bowing twin mattress directly in the center. Dresser cata-cornered by the window. Really makes me wonder. Is this all for show? The shit he’s doing today is a perfect example. I check his closet just for shits and giggles. “Ope,” I spout. A deflated blow-up doll sags behind a dozen t-shirts.
The top drawer of the dresser. It’s deep. A couple of new condoms on top of a meager underwear collection. It smells like Axe spray and scrotums. The small backpack is squeezed into the corner. I unzip the top. Freezer bag half full of weed. A handful of rolled dollar bills. A baggie with crack cocaine rests inside the cash and cannabis nest. One $20 is loose, so I pocket it at once. A dime bag is at the bottom. I hold onto it as proof.
I exit the trailer. Frankie moved to the broadside of the trailer. A thick cardboard target is nailed to the sheathing. I watch him pull the gun from his basketball shorts’ waistband. The target is peppered with holes. Pellets are embedded in the thick cardboard. Frankie belches. His accent is more farcical and off-key. He harmonizes with a freestyle rap. The incomprehensible phrases are full of ad-lib chirps and squawks. A truly unique individual.
“Alright, bro, I’m out,” I say. I hold up the bud of weed for him to see, but he’s ignoring me. Grunts of affirmation come from his mouth. Sounds like a frog croaking. I spy on my bike, indented in the grass. Time to go to the interview.
A BB whizzes by my ear.
I flinch, shout, “See you later, tweaking asshole.” I conjure a deep courage that only arises when adrenaline flows through me. Even my balls feel inflated.
Frankie’s arms flop down. He wheezes through his mouth like a cave dweller. I see the crescent moon scar on his chin. I remember that story. His initiation or whatever. He stands diagonally to me. His shoulder is lowered and angled at me. He lowers his head. The rising sun casts a shadow over his face. Glares at me like a villain in a mediocre movie. A bull ready to charge.
I scramble for my bike. My Casio says 7:45 AM. Fuck I am late. I right the bike up and stand on a pedal. It doesn’t move in the blanket7 of dewy grass. I lunge it forward with my back leg. I hear the click, the whiz of the steel. A shattering of thin glass. The watch on my wrist absorbs the blow. The bezel is destroyed. I drop the weed and money. I lose the bud, quite literally, in the weeds.
“Goddamn, dude,” I cry out. “My watch is ruined.”
Frankie talks normally to me once again. That’s how I know he’s finally serious. “Roll that pant leg up, Brady.” He extends the firearm using both hands. He aims down the iron sight. “One shot on the leg, then we square.”
I imagine the boss for the job is waiting for me. Shrugging their shoulders, crossing my name off a list. Invite another goober to interview instead. I get screwed out of my money and my freedom. Somehow, at that moment, I changed course.
Rage engulfs my brain. I conjure a deep courage that dwells in the bowels of young men. I stomp over to him. He’s taller by a few inches, but it doesn’t stop me from squaring up. I can see the blown-out ‘Lauren’ tattooed on his chest. That’s how close I am to this doofus. I bet she would mock the hell out of him. This is a moment for which I’ve been waiting for.
Lauren is an Ivy-league senior. I was always a friend to her while Frankie saw her as a sex object. Hell, he dated her for 3 months and wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Standing up to Frankie’s foolery and impressing Lauren. The last time I let a former friend pause my life for me. The last hopeful, loving relationship I watch go down the drain. No more. It feels great. The culmination of years of shit-slinging. It ends now.
“I’m already late, dawg, so just shoot me, motherfucker.”
Frankie steps back. He aims. He pulls the trigger. I turn away on instinct. I feel the piercing pellet rip through my pants, into my calf. A sharp, numbing pain in my meaty calf. I already know it’s there. I know it’s going to be uncomfortable.
I shove my bike until it reaches the road. I straddle it. I can still pedal despite the bullet. The fading melodies of Frankie’s raps dissipate into nothing. I reach a steady clip, blowing through stop signs after cursory glances for traffic. I calculate 15 minutes before I arrive. The highway will be good enough for me.
I show up, out of breath and sweating a lot. A trickle of blood has dried on my shoe. I’m seething. The physical exercise keeps my body hot. My lungs are losing breath as I prop up my bike alongside the brick wall. I enter the doorway and take four paces to the front desk. The receptionist’s face flushes white like she sees a ghost.
“Brady, here to interview.”
I take a seat. I calm my temper with deep breathing. My skin cools and I want to apologize. I become polite and ask for a bottle of water, please. I say a stray stick grazed me. The receptionist, now empathetic, hands me a bottle and points me to the restroom. Inside the fragrant stall, I pull the pant leg up. The pellet is no longer there. Discarded on the roadside, to rust in a gutter and never be found again. I rinse the wound over the toilet; pat it dry with my dirty pantleg. I sip the rest and drop the bottle into the trash. Next to a tampon wrapper. I check for the $20. Still got it.
The last thing I do, I whip my cock out and piss. A long, steady stream that makes me groan in delight. I bellow air in my lungs and exhale. I feel the tingling from my arms, to crotch, to feet. I wash my throbbing hands with a long soak with plentiful soap lathering. I wish to leave a better impression.
