Peter E. Vogel, Jr.
"Ow, oh fuck. Its like a Thousand Drums beaten by Invisible Dancing Monkeys, underwater."
"It's a hangover, not a plague of Egypt."
I perched uncomfortably on the low curb next to Ed's house. I desperately wanted to sit down, but the sprinklers had doused the grassy suburban park behind us not twenty minutes ago, and the surrounding area was soaked through. Slade seemed far more comfortable leaning back with his ass on the wet lawn, legs splayed out flat before him like a paraplegic. He had achieved that careless disregard for damp denim that only comes after sustained and fervent repetition of the phrase "I don't give a shit."
Ed on the other hand, squatted on the pavement a few feet in front of us, in an even more awkward position than my own. He held his head in his hands and seemed to be following the course of his own shadow in the late afternoon sun.
"I'm done with Jager, said Ed. After last night, Im done."
"I hate that shit," said Slade. "How do homeless guys drink that and still function?"
"They don't," I said. "Hence the smell."
"Pungent fellas," said Slade, with a touch of that Southern accent that seemed out of place coming from an unshaven, blonde dreadlocked, Teva-wearing stoner. "So what's going on tonight?"
"I dont think Ed is in shape to do much of anything," I said. Ed rubbed his dark shaved head and gurgled.
"Cigarettes," Slade ventured. "We will smoke some cigarettes."
Slade leaned back on the wet grass and pulled the pack and lighter from his pocket, then leaned forward. He glanced briefly at the back of his t-shirt, just now acknowledging the fact that hey, it was all wet here. He mumbled and offered Ed a cigarette. Ed stared at it like a man being presented with a moldy worm, then abruptly changed his expression, duck-walked over a few feet and took one. Slade turned to me with the pack.
"Dude, I dont smoke," I said. "I never smoked."
"Right, right," said Slade, pretending to remember just now. "Don't smoke, dont shem-oke, dont even drink. You should be a Mormon."
Slade lit Ed's cigarette, then his own. He drew up his legs and held them
"I'm not down with the special underwear," I said.
I glanced over Slades shoulder toward Ed's house, where Pastor Garner could be seen reading through a dimly lit window. Ed Garner, Sr. Man of God and former Army Chaplain, with an only son who had spent the past three years burning through the familys money while switching college majors five times.
"You going to State next year?" asked Slade between drags.
"Yeah," I answered, "Heavy schedule, 18 credits. Have to make up for lost time. I'm telling you man, switch majors. You already took the acting classes, you can get up there easily."
"You're such a fucking cheater," Ed grumbled, glancing at man on a small Kawasaki motorcycle driving up the street. "They have to take theater majors, its the law."
"What law?"
"You know, the arts." Ed waved his cigarette in a vague circular motion above his head, which I guessed was intended to simulate either a conductors wand, a stage rapier, or a very bad hand-job. "They have to support the arts."
"I'm not," said Slade, looking at me.
"How's that?" said Ed.
"I flunked out."
I considered what to say, and we sat in silence except for the whine of the passing motorcycle. Then I heard the engine rise in pitch, I turned in time to see it accelerating directly toward us. I saw the bike flash by, saw Slade begin to stand up as I fell back onto the damp lawn. Ed skidded back and his leg went out from under him. I saw it and for a moment imagined the tires running across the flesh of his leg, but he pulled it aside within inches.
Ed let out a strange, surprised mewl. Slade jumped to his feet and screamed, Hey motherfucker! loud enough to hear across the street. The motorcycle slowed a few yards down the road, turned around and returned to us, slowly this time.
I stood up and brushed off my ass, helped Ed to his feet. I heard shouting, and looked up.
The motorcyclist stopped a few feet away. He turned off his engine and removed his helmet, revealing a thin-faced, ropy necked guy with dark hair and a sparse moustache. He looked a few years older then we, but not much. Slade, easy-going stoner happy-go-lucky Slade, stood with arms wide, spouting a string of obscenities as he approached.
"What the motherfuck, man, are you a fucking retard? You fucking get you kicks running people over on your little bike?"
"Fuck you," said the motorcyclist.
I noticed the nearly blank expression on the mans face, with the vague hint of something under the surface, something ready to burst out, like an angry insect buried in flesh. I moved closer, standing behind Slade for support. Ed half-stumbled after me, and took a position on Slades other side.
"Fuck me? Do you believe this shit?" Slade looked back toward us with a strange look on his face, a humorless grin that made him look harder. "You ran us over, fucknuts. You trying to prove something? Man what do you weigh like 80 pounds? You look like a fucking leather queen Chihuahua in those pants, man."
"I've got a gun."
"You got what?" Slade had been looking at me and Ed when the guy said it.
"I have a gun, and I'll fucking kill you." The man's neck twitched, and his gloved hand moved very slowly upward.
I saw Ed shiver and step back. Without knowing why, I stepped forward.
Slade shook his head, dreads dangling. "Where? Let me see it."
The motorcyclist unzipped his leather jacket, and pulled it back to reveal the brown handle of a revolver, in what looked like a shoulder holster.
Several thoughts passed through my consciousness like a chorus of voices. Ran through us on purpose. Thin and small, twitchy, angry. Shoulder holster, not tucked in the belt. Hes looking to use the gun. Thought about it. Planned it.
Hes not just talking. He will shoot.
I felt the hot blood behind my ears, felt my hands twitch with adrenaline. Slade stood his ground, but it looked like he was frozen. Ed was hungover, and scared.
We can't get to him. We are getting shot.
The leather gloved hand reached for the handle, still moving slowly, with that same blank expression on his face.
"Hey boys, what exactly is going on out here?"
Edward Garner, Sr, Pastor and former Army Chaplain, called out from his front porch. He had heard the profanity, He was standing dozen yards away, and the motorcyclists back was to him. He couldn't see the gun.
The hand stopped, and then clenched in an odd fashion, fidgeting or spasming, like a bird flopping on the ground.
The man on the motorcycle looked back at Ed Sr., and then turned quickly away, like a child caught with someone else's toy. I grabbed Slade's arm to pull him back, opened my mouth to call to Ed's father but then the man took his helmet in both hands, put it on, and zipped up the jacket. He started the motorcycle, and looked at us once. His eyes were squinting, but I couldn't see any recognizable emotion in them. He revved the engine, turned a tight circle, and sped away.
We told Ed Sr. all about it, and he in turn called the police. Eds' mother was frantic, and feared her son had suffered a heart attack, although it was really adrenaline plus the hangover. The police arrived almost forty-five minutes later, and took statements from everyone. They called in the a short description of the man and the motorcycle, and left, saying they would drive by the house, and gave Ed Sr. a number to call.
In the subsequent days, I was certain that we would hear something from the twitchy motorcyclist, some serial rage shooting, maybe a drunk guy outside a bar or something. But while I scanned the paper for months afterward, and asked Ed Sr. more than once if he had heard from the police, there was nothing.
By nature, I am not a violent man, and in normal circumstances I don't wish harm on anyone. I am also not a religious man, at least not in the classical "I believe this book is the truth sense." But I will share with you now a prayer I said that night, when I got home and was lying safely in my bed.
"If you are there, if you can affect this world, I ask for this. Please kill him. Kill him before he hurts someone."
I don't know if that makes me unevolved, or heartless, or evil, or just presumptuous. but I still remember that weird, blank look, and I still hope he died before he could hurt a soul. I can tell you this much: that man was broken.
Some people should just be marked, "Return to Sender."
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About the others: After that summer, I went to State, and gradually lost touch. Ed stayed in community college for three more years, then the money ran out or maybe Ed Sr. just had enough and he kicked his son out. Ed Jr. joined the Army after that, and actually did well, rising to the rank of Sergeant First Class, in the infantry. There is a good chance he is somewhere hot and dry right now, hopefully he is alright. The last I heard of Slade, he was working as a fry cook in a local diner, and had married one of the waitresses. Yeah, not what I expected, either.