Church Ball
Last night Chris and I had lifted his dad’s keys to the church. Mikey helped us make our very own; no one else would do it because the key said, “DO NOT COPY.” It didn’t matter; now we could get in and out as we pleased.
The light from the stage shined onto the basketball court where we stood. It felt better to do this in the dark. Tables with shining white cloths were huddled in the corner of the room; someone was getting married tomorrow. Today they were just in the way.
The basketball court was alive with the sound of shuffling feet. Chris and I picked the teams, five on five. Shirts and skins; we stripped in preparation; our bodies all shiny and new. Then we played.
Our games aren’t like the ones on TV, this is Mormon church ball. The same game might be played in prison, if there weren’t so many guards.
Call your own fouls.
Elbows were expected, pushing of, reaching in, and rough handled shots are normal. The only taboo is traveling.
Only pussies call fouls that didn’t draw blood.
My pale skin glistened with hard won sweat. All ten of us sparkled under the stage lights like Stephanie Meyer’s vampires. The court feels like a sauna before long, all of our sweat makes the room feel humid; like the minutes before a storm.
There was a hustle and flow to the movement of the ball. Squeaking sneakers and the dribbling ball make a music that echoes through the hall. Our grunting and calls sound out in tribal rhythm. The ball flies through the air amongst elbows and knees on its planned trajectory. The ball hits the rim with more of a feeling than a sound.
And I jump.
So does Chris. He throws his elbow toward me and catches my nose with a pop and a sound like grating sand. Bright red blood sprays with my breath. I drop to the pine and the game moves on.
“What the heck man?” I said, jumping to push the offender.
“That was clean!”
“Clean? My ass!”
“You’re too much of a pussy to play the game then you should just go home.” Chris pushed me with all his might.
“ I’m not a pussy, I can kick your ass.”
“Bring it on cock muncher”
We dance like in middle school, too far to touch, but still too close for comfort. The room is filled with rancorous shouting like speaking in tongues.
“Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight!”
Chris’s hand flies to my face and my body freezes. I watch in slo-mo as my nose flattens again. Tears and blood flood the floor as I hunch over, gasping in pain from the reopened wound. Chris finds my chin with an uppercut that sprays blood all over his hands and bare chest. The shiny white table cloths are sprinkled with blood like spray-paint. I drop to the ground and the room buzzes. Chris stands victorious; proud like a statue. I feel hands pull me up from the ground and start to drag me off the court.
The light flickers and sparkles as I gasp for breath; starved for oxygen.
I pick myself up, sprint at Chris and drive him to the ground like a football player. Deep hard packing sounds fill the room as his face turns into hamburger. My hands are like hammers, each stoke driving in his nose like a nail. His gasps turn to gurgles; and then, silence. The shouting has stopped. The room sounds like death.
So does Chris.
Lamoni runs and grabs his phone. The ambulance is on its way.
Paul and Alma drag Chris outside; leaving a trail like bread crumbs dripping. Chris’s blue eyes stare at me out of broken sockets as he’s dropped out of doors. Alma pins a note to his chest because even dental records couldn’t identify him now. The court is stained red to match the once pure tablecloths. The lights from the stage still sparkle and shine as we all make off like thieves. I run until my legs feel like rubber, and my heart pumps battery acid. The siren of the ambulance sings from the church parking lot and I know it won’t be long until different sirens sing for me.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
This is my latest story I think its damn good. In a couple of drafts i'm gonna send it off for publication
Ayúdeme
Oliver sat quietly in the corner sanitizing his pens, one by one, until they sparkled. Then he started over. Next were the notebooks, he lined them up with laser precision, exactly to the edge of his desk. He laid down his pens; black, blue, red. There was purpose for everything on his perfectly ordered desk, from the pencil sharpener to the hand sanitizer. Everything had its place. Such perfection took time; Oliver arrived twenty minutes early for class every day. This gave him just enough time to wipe down his seat and all seats that touched it, or may touch it. The sterile smell of sanitizer followed Oliver in a cloud; like Pigpen in reverse. It was his bubble of safety. His cloud was pure, undefiled, clean.
It always made Oliver nervous when the other students came to class, they might not be clean. Oliver shuddered at the thought. Oliver squirmed silently as the other students filed in. Oliver stared intently at his desk; his pens had become disordered. A backpack bumped his desk and his note books left their perfect place and spread ever so slightly towards the center. Oliver’s heart raced as he tried to keep order. He re-ordered the pens, re aligned the notebooks, all with careful precision. Then the unthinkable happened.
“Hey, dude, you got a pen I can borrow?”
Oliver stared straight ahead and acted as if he had not heard. His heart pounded out a furious tribal beat. His face looked like a fresh tomato; beads of sweat glistened as they rolled down his cheeks.
“Hey, buddy, d’you have an extra pen?”
The student reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. Oliver shuddered under the weight of his finger. Now he’d have to wash his jacket. Oliver stayed solid like a statue; his eyes riveted to the whiteboard. His face contorted into a mask of fear and concentration. Please ask someone else, please ask someone else he thought as intensely as he could. He made no move to respond. The student, frustrated, turned to another more cooperative neighbor. Oliver deflated in relief.
Oliver remained tense throughout the remainder of the class. He felt every eye in the room searching him. They wondered why he would not share his pens; he knew it. The eyes added weight onto his shoulders. His breath quickened and became shallower. His pulse raced. He had to leave, there were too many eyes on him. Quickly ,but deliberately, Oliver packed up his things. Everything had to be ordered properly. Before most in the class noticed, Oliver was out the door and down the hall; his eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. Oliver rushed out the building almost out-running his cloud of sanitizer.
When he entered his turn of the century brownstone building, Oliver could finally begin to relax. He had raced back to his apartment on foot all of the way from NYU where he was a student. He calmly put his gloves on and then pressed the elevator call button three times. The gentle hum of the elevator in motion calmed him down. Oliver felt better now that he was back in his element, now that he was home. The elevator doors opened in front of him and he waited the three seconds called for in his normal ritual and then he entered the car. He casually pressed the button to his floor, the seventh floor (he’d specifically requested that floor, it had taken him six months to find an apartment on the east side of a building on the seventh floor in a neighborhood cheap enough for him to live in). When he reached his floor he waited the prescribed three seconds and then exited the car. He took exactly twenty-one steps to his door touched it three times and the entered. He took his sanitary gloves off, they were now very soiled. He put them promptly in the wastebasket. Oliver’s whole body sighed relief as he collapsed onto his plastic coated sofa.
Fffffpppppfffff the air slowly released out of the sofa as Oliver sunk into it. Oliver sat for just a moment before his mind began racing through the events that had run him out of his class room.
Oliver recounted his escape and made sure that he had not made a mistake. He was afraid to go back, What will they think of me? They’ll think I’m a freak, running out of class… I am a freak. Tears welled up in his eyes as he recounted his steps and his touches. Oliver didn’t really want to count out his steps and touches; but he was afraid of what might happen if he didn’t. His momma had raised him to be careful. Sometimes that was all he thought he was being, not crazy. His momma had taught him to touch the door three times before entering a room in memory of the Holy Trinity. But he saw how people looked at him when he did it.
Oliver often worried about what others thought of him. He was afraid that he might be seen as a freak and ridiculed. He worried constantly about being caught. That’s why he did all of his cleaning and all of his touching door knobs and avoiding cracks, in secret. That’s why his classes were always three hours apart, that’s why he always walked home alone. Oliver had tried to get help before. But the shrink had done nothing for him but give his neuroses labels. Obsessive compulsive this, paranoid delusional that. Oliver quit after a month.
He had no money for that. He lived off of the insurance money his mother had left him when she died. Oliver lived his life wholly alone ever since. He still thought about her every day, she had understood. She had loved him even with his faults. He felt his loneliness but he told himself that no one could ever understand why he was the way he was. Oliver looked up from his couch and realized that he had to get going.
It was a Wednesday, and he realized that if he didn’t ride the subway he would never get to his church in time to wipe down his pew unnoticed. His church was across town, it was too far to walk, usually he went there strait from campus, but he had rushed home already. It was nearly twice as far from his apartment as it was from the school. The subway was his only option.
He walked to the terminal, Five hundred and sixty seven steps. His train arrived five minutes late, the tardiness made Oliver shudder. Could he really trust a train that did not run on time. As the doors opened to the train he stood and started counting, One one-thousand, two one-thousand, Three one-thous— the doors slid shut and the train began to glide away. Oliver watched as the train picked up speed out of the terminal. Just as well, he thought, maybe the next train will show up on time. But deep down inside Oliver felt his failure, he was too afraid to board a train because he needed three full seconds to cross the threshold.
His head hung and his shoulders drooped as he waited for the next train to come. He repeated the events of the first failure over again and again in his mind as he waited. With each repetition the words became faster and more slurred. They became a mantra of his failure, a calming buzz, like white noise, only the approaching train broke his trance. His feet hadn’t moved since the last train, even though four other trains had come by. The train approached and he quickly pressed the button three times the door slid open and his count began.
Passengers filed past him both on and off of the train. Some grumbled as they passed, hurling curses and insults, but until the three seconds were up, Oliver stood like a statue. But he heard everything.
When his three seconds were up, Oliver slip through the doors just as they closed, almost catching the tails of his trench-coat, it had been a close call. He quickly scanned the car he had chosen, it was disgusting. There were wrappers strewn across the floor, gum plastered the bottoms and tops of the chairs and the hand rails. Oliver’s pulse began to quicken. His palms began to sweat, this would not do.
He stood frozen in place; he couldn’t even finish his seven steps into the train. Some of the florescent lights were out and others were flickering imminent death. The train looked like something out of a horror movie. Just then the train lurched forward sending Oliver into a fresh wad of gum. His jacket stuck to the seat as he tried to stand. Waves of horror crashed through his body. His person had been violated by some unknown monster. He did know where that gum had come from. All sorts of nasty little bugs came in saliva. He really didn’t know which ones, but he was afraid of them all. He bolted from the seat, his jacket tugging him back by elastic strands, like a bungee cord of disease.
He stood, too horrified to move, until the next stop. This one would have to do. As the doors slid open he counted to three, maybe a little faster than usual, but this was no time for caution. Oliver counted the steps as he ran to the nearest trash can. He put on his surgical gloves and quickly disposed of his trench coat. The jacket was a lost cause; Oliver knew he could never fully sanitize it.
Only then did Oliver realize that he’d gotten off a few stops early and he would have to wait for the next train for another twenty five minutes. All of these delays would get him to the chapel right on-time for the service. He would have no time to wipe down the pew. He couldn’t do it without people noticing. But he couldn’t miss the service all together; he knew that, his momma had raised him to believe that all sorts of bad things happened to people who skipped church.
His momma had taught him that people who play hooky go to hell; with boys who don’t wash their hands before dinner and don’t clean behind their ears. Oliver’s momma had taught him all sorts of things about hell that the priest never said. She had used it as a catch-all. Everything that Oliver did that was bad, or that she didn’t like was a one way ticket to hell. And for Oliver’s part he never questioned his momma. Oliver thought about all of his mother’s counsel about hell as he waited for the next train.
Oliver waited the twenty five minutes and counted out his entrance to the train. Beads of sweat glistened in the florescent light of the train. His hands shook lightly as he waited for the train to lurch forward. His skinny legs spread-wide to brace himself against the sudden motion. As Oliver rode the train his sweat began to run down his forehead. He had to dab at it to keep it out of his eyes.
Rings of fear slowly grew out of his armpits as he inched closer and closer to the church. When the train glided to a halt he counted out his exit and began to number his stepsto church. At step Five-hundred and seven Oliver saw a man crumpled in a heap. The man was shabbily dressed and he reeked of the gutter. A sign that laid next to him said honeles pleise halp. As Oliver approached the man the homeless man called out to the nearly deserted sidewalk.
“!Ayudeme!”
Oliver paused in his count and looked at the man. The sidewalk was stained underneath him. His blood was creeping into and filling all of the cracks in the pavement. The injured man’s labored breathing filled the night air, one gasp at a time. He was dying. With each gasp fresh blood bubbled out of his mouth. The man had a pierced lung. Oliver knew that without a hospital this man was not long for this world. Oliver paused, but didn’t know what to do. He reached for his coat pocket to find his phone and fresh gloves, but none were to be found. His coat was in the train station garbage at least two miles back. Oliver had no time to go back and get them.
The man’s eyes pleaded with Oliver for help.
“Ayudeme…”
Even though Oliver didn’t understand the man’s words he knew that he was begging for his help. He knew if he missed church he’d go to hell. That much he was sure of. And if he didn’t get there as fast as possible he wouldn’t be able to wipe down his pew. If he was dirty he’d go to hell, and people would see him cleaning. People always stared when he cleaned. He couldn’t bear the weight of all those eyes.
Surely someone else would come along and help this man; someone who had a phone or time or who could help him. Someone else would surely do what he could not. He simply had no time. Oliver looked down at the man one more time, second guessing what he knew he must do.
* * *
The door to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Catholic Church felt heavier today. Oliver’s narrow shoulders slumped in defeat as the priest greeted him. The priest was about to say something to comfort him but Oliver didn’t pause. He was one of the few people who attended the Wednesday night masses. Oliver crossed himself three times as he found a seat in the third pew from the back. He pulled out his box of anti-bacterial wipes and wiped down the seat, but his efforts were half-hearted at best. His mind kept replaying the homeless man’s eyes, his hard breathing and raspy plea for help. Oliver couldn’t focus on the service. He sang very little and didn’t stand at all. All he heard was the man’s plea. “Ayudeme…ayudeme…” the words burned in Oliver’s brain. He didn’t snap out of his trance until he heard the beginning of the Priest’s sermon. “Today,” the priest said, “we are going to read out of the gospel of St. Luke. Chapter ten verses 25-37. A pharisee tested Our Savior by asking who was his neighbor. In response the savior said this, ‘A man fell victim to robbers as he went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. They stripped and beat him and went off leaving him half-dead. A priest happened to be going down that road, but when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side. Likewise a Levite came to the place, and when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side. But a Samaritan traveler who came upon him was moved with compassion at the sight. He approached the victim, poured oil and wine over his wounds and bandaged them. Then he lifted him up on his own animal, took him to an inn and cared for him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper with the instruction, 'Take care of him. If you spend more than what I have given you, I shall repay you on my way back. Which of these three, in your opinion, was neighbor to the robbers' victim?’ He answered, ‘The one who treated him with mercy.’ Our savior told him to go and do likewise. So should we all.
How many times have each of us looked past the suffering of others in search of our own comfort?”
Oliver’s eyes stung with tears and his stomach sank to the floor. He thought he was going to be sick. The priest knows what I did. I let that man die. It’s all my fault. God is going to punish me. Tears began to stream down Oliver’s face and he didn’t think to dab them. They fell freely to the floor.
“I’ll tell you this,” the priest continued, “no one who looks past the suffering of another is acceptable in the sight of God. Such a man has great cause to repent.” The Priest preached with an unusual fervor.
“Each of you need’s to think about who you know whose needs you have over looked. Who could you help today, who can you bring the light of Christ to?—”
He might still be alive. I could still save him. I might not have to go to hell. Oliver sprang out of his pew and sprinted out the door, he didn’t bother to count his steps. He ran all the way back to where he’d seen the man.
But where the man had been there was only a chalk outline on a stain of dried red. The man had died. Oliver’s knees buckled. His whole frame shook as tears streamed freely down his face until his chest was soaked and his eyes ran dry. His fate was certain. He knew there was no way to escape hell now. There was no point any more. This man had died, and he had allowed it. Oliver’s thin frame slumped over the chalk outline. The cry of the dying man echoed in his head.
“Ayudeme…”
He had said no. I let him die. I killed him. I could have done so many things, but I didn’t. It’s all my fault all my damn insecurities. I could wash off germs but I can’t wash this off.
Oliver sat there for what felt like hours. He couldn’t escape his realization; this man’s death was his fault. He replayed a thousand alternatives in his head. If only he’d caught the first bus, if only he hadn’t fallen in the gum… but all roads led back to the same one. It was his fault and if he wasn’t so afraid of germs, and disease, the man wouldn’t be dead now. If only I weren’t such a coward, that man would still be alive. If only I could be a man…
All at once Oliver raised his slender frame from the ground. And he began to walk home. His eyes still burned red from tears. He tried not to count his steps home, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t try to ride the subway, he didn’t even consider it. When he reached the door to his apartment; He touched the door once, twice… he fought the urge, but he couldn’t resist and he touched it a third time. He ran up the stairs to his apartment at full speed, counting the steps to his room; his eyes burned from a fresh set of tears. I’m so weak he told himself. He quickly touched the doorknob, one two three before bursting through his door. Oliver collapsed on his floor shivering and shaking. Self loathing poured through his eyes onto the floor. He knew that he could never get past his habits. He knew then that he couldn’t live like this anymore.
“Ayudeme…” The man’s eyes burned into his soul from his memory. He ached in his helplessness.
Oliver crawled to the cabinet to his medicine cabinet.
“Ayudeme” The plea sounded more like an accusation. His eyes swam in his shame. He quickened his crawl to the medicine cabinet. He opened a bottle of Tylenol and tried to silence the voice. He downed the whole bottle. He wanted to stop the pain. This would be a neat death, a calm death. He didn’t want to leave a mess.
“Ayudeme”As the world swirled around him and his chest began to burn, he saw the man’s eyes accusing him…
“Ayudeme.”
Oliver sat quietly in the corner sanitizing his pens, one by one, until they sparkled. Then he started over. Next were the notebooks, he lined them up with laser precision, exactly to the edge of his desk. He laid down his pens; black, blue, red. There was purpose for everything on his perfectly ordered desk, from the pencil sharpener to the hand sanitizer. Everything had its place. Such perfection took time; Oliver arrived twenty minutes early for class every day. This gave him just enough time to wipe down his seat and all seats that touched it, or may touch it. The sterile smell of sanitizer followed Oliver in a cloud; like Pigpen in reverse. It was his bubble of safety. His cloud was pure, undefiled, clean.
It always made Oliver nervous when the other students came to class, they might not be clean. Oliver shuddered at the thought. Oliver squirmed silently as the other students filed in. Oliver stared intently at his desk; his pens had become disordered. A backpack bumped his desk and his note books left their perfect place and spread ever so slightly towards the center. Oliver’s heart raced as he tried to keep order. He re-ordered the pens, re aligned the notebooks, all with careful precision. Then the unthinkable happened.
“Hey, dude, you got a pen I can borrow?”
Oliver stared straight ahead and acted as if he had not heard. His heart pounded out a furious tribal beat. His face looked like a fresh tomato; beads of sweat glistened as they rolled down his cheeks.
“Hey, buddy, d’you have an extra pen?”
The student reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. Oliver shuddered under the weight of his finger. Now he’d have to wash his jacket. Oliver stayed solid like a statue; his eyes riveted to the whiteboard. His face contorted into a mask of fear and concentration. Please ask someone else, please ask someone else he thought as intensely as he could. He made no move to respond. The student, frustrated, turned to another more cooperative neighbor. Oliver deflated in relief.
Oliver remained tense throughout the remainder of the class. He felt every eye in the room searching him. They wondered why he would not share his pens; he knew it. The eyes added weight onto his shoulders. His breath quickened and became shallower. His pulse raced. He had to leave, there were too many eyes on him. Quickly ,but deliberately, Oliver packed up his things. Everything had to be ordered properly. Before most in the class noticed, Oliver was out the door and down the hall; his eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. Oliver rushed out the building almost out-running his cloud of sanitizer.
When he entered his turn of the century brownstone building, Oliver could finally begin to relax. He had raced back to his apartment on foot all of the way from NYU where he was a student. He calmly put his gloves on and then pressed the elevator call button three times. The gentle hum of the elevator in motion calmed him down. Oliver felt better now that he was back in his element, now that he was home. The elevator doors opened in front of him and he waited the three seconds called for in his normal ritual and then he entered the car. He casually pressed the button to his floor, the seventh floor (he’d specifically requested that floor, it had taken him six months to find an apartment on the east side of a building on the seventh floor in a neighborhood cheap enough for him to live in). When he reached his floor he waited the prescribed three seconds and then exited the car. He took exactly twenty-one steps to his door touched it three times and the entered. He took his sanitary gloves off, they were now very soiled. He put them promptly in the wastebasket. Oliver’s whole body sighed relief as he collapsed onto his plastic coated sofa.
Fffffpppppfffff the air slowly released out of the sofa as Oliver sunk into it. Oliver sat for just a moment before his mind began racing through the events that had run him out of his class room.
Oliver recounted his escape and made sure that he had not made a mistake. He was afraid to go back, What will they think of me? They’ll think I’m a freak, running out of class… I am a freak. Tears welled up in his eyes as he recounted his steps and his touches. Oliver didn’t really want to count out his steps and touches; but he was afraid of what might happen if he didn’t. His momma had raised him to be careful. Sometimes that was all he thought he was being, not crazy. His momma had taught him to touch the door three times before entering a room in memory of the Holy Trinity. But he saw how people looked at him when he did it.
Oliver often worried about what others thought of him. He was afraid that he might be seen as a freak and ridiculed. He worried constantly about being caught. That’s why he did all of his cleaning and all of his touching door knobs and avoiding cracks, in secret. That’s why his classes were always three hours apart, that’s why he always walked home alone. Oliver had tried to get help before. But the shrink had done nothing for him but give his neuroses labels. Obsessive compulsive this, paranoid delusional that. Oliver quit after a month.
He had no money for that. He lived off of the insurance money his mother had left him when she died. Oliver lived his life wholly alone ever since. He still thought about her every day, she had understood. She had loved him even with his faults. He felt his loneliness but he told himself that no one could ever understand why he was the way he was. Oliver looked up from his couch and realized that he had to get going.
It was a Wednesday, and he realized that if he didn’t ride the subway he would never get to his church in time to wipe down his pew unnoticed. His church was across town, it was too far to walk, usually he went there strait from campus, but he had rushed home already. It was nearly twice as far from his apartment as it was from the school. The subway was his only option.
He walked to the terminal, Five hundred and sixty seven steps. His train arrived five minutes late, the tardiness made Oliver shudder. Could he really trust a train that did not run on time. As the doors opened to the train he stood and started counting, One one-thousand, two one-thousand, Three one-thous— the doors slid shut and the train began to glide away. Oliver watched as the train picked up speed out of the terminal. Just as well, he thought, maybe the next train will show up on time. But deep down inside Oliver felt his failure, he was too afraid to board a train because he needed three full seconds to cross the threshold.
His head hung and his shoulders drooped as he waited for the next train to come. He repeated the events of the first failure over again and again in his mind as he waited. With each repetition the words became faster and more slurred. They became a mantra of his failure, a calming buzz, like white noise, only the approaching train broke his trance. His feet hadn’t moved since the last train, even though four other trains had come by. The train approached and he quickly pressed the button three times the door slid open and his count began.
Passengers filed past him both on and off of the train. Some grumbled as they passed, hurling curses and insults, but until the three seconds were up, Oliver stood like a statue. But he heard everything.
When his three seconds were up, Oliver slip through the doors just as they closed, almost catching the tails of his trench-coat, it had been a close call. He quickly scanned the car he had chosen, it was disgusting. There were wrappers strewn across the floor, gum plastered the bottoms and tops of the chairs and the hand rails. Oliver’s pulse began to quicken. His palms began to sweat, this would not do.
He stood frozen in place; he couldn’t even finish his seven steps into the train. Some of the florescent lights were out and others were flickering imminent death. The train looked like something out of a horror movie. Just then the train lurched forward sending Oliver into a fresh wad of gum. His jacket stuck to the seat as he tried to stand. Waves of horror crashed through his body. His person had been violated by some unknown monster. He did know where that gum had come from. All sorts of nasty little bugs came in saliva. He really didn’t know which ones, but he was afraid of them all. He bolted from the seat, his jacket tugging him back by elastic strands, like a bungee cord of disease.
He stood, too horrified to move, until the next stop. This one would have to do. As the doors slid open he counted to three, maybe a little faster than usual, but this was no time for caution. Oliver counted the steps as he ran to the nearest trash can. He put on his surgical gloves and quickly disposed of his trench coat. The jacket was a lost cause; Oliver knew he could never fully sanitize it.
Only then did Oliver realize that he’d gotten off a few stops early and he would have to wait for the next train for another twenty five minutes. All of these delays would get him to the chapel right on-time for the service. He would have no time to wipe down the pew. He couldn’t do it without people noticing. But he couldn’t miss the service all together; he knew that, his momma had raised him to believe that all sorts of bad things happened to people who skipped church.
His momma had taught him that people who play hooky go to hell; with boys who don’t wash their hands before dinner and don’t clean behind their ears. Oliver’s momma had taught him all sorts of things about hell that the priest never said. She had used it as a catch-all. Everything that Oliver did that was bad, or that she didn’t like was a one way ticket to hell. And for Oliver’s part he never questioned his momma. Oliver thought about all of his mother’s counsel about hell as he waited for the next train.
Oliver waited the twenty five minutes and counted out his entrance to the train. Beads of sweat glistened in the florescent light of the train. His hands shook lightly as he waited for the train to lurch forward. His skinny legs spread-wide to brace himself against the sudden motion. As Oliver rode the train his sweat began to run down his forehead. He had to dab at it to keep it out of his eyes.
Rings of fear slowly grew out of his armpits as he inched closer and closer to the church. When the train glided to a halt he counted out his exit and began to number his stepsto church. At step Five-hundred and seven Oliver saw a man crumpled in a heap. The man was shabbily dressed and he reeked of the gutter. A sign that laid next to him said honeles pleise halp. As Oliver approached the man the homeless man called out to the nearly deserted sidewalk.
“!Ayudeme!”
Oliver paused in his count and looked at the man. The sidewalk was stained underneath him. His blood was creeping into and filling all of the cracks in the pavement. The injured man’s labored breathing filled the night air, one gasp at a time. He was dying. With each gasp fresh blood bubbled out of his mouth. The man had a pierced lung. Oliver knew that without a hospital this man was not long for this world. Oliver paused, but didn’t know what to do. He reached for his coat pocket to find his phone and fresh gloves, but none were to be found. His coat was in the train station garbage at least two miles back. Oliver had no time to go back and get them.
The man’s eyes pleaded with Oliver for help.
“Ayudeme…”
Even though Oliver didn’t understand the man’s words he knew that he was begging for his help. He knew if he missed church he’d go to hell. That much he was sure of. And if he didn’t get there as fast as possible he wouldn’t be able to wipe down his pew. If he was dirty he’d go to hell, and people would see him cleaning. People always stared when he cleaned. He couldn’t bear the weight of all those eyes.
Surely someone else would come along and help this man; someone who had a phone or time or who could help him. Someone else would surely do what he could not. He simply had no time. Oliver looked down at the man one more time, second guessing what he knew he must do.
* * *
The door to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Catholic Church felt heavier today. Oliver’s narrow shoulders slumped in defeat as the priest greeted him. The priest was about to say something to comfort him but Oliver didn’t pause. He was one of the few people who attended the Wednesday night masses. Oliver crossed himself three times as he found a seat in the third pew from the back. He pulled out his box of anti-bacterial wipes and wiped down the seat, but his efforts were half-hearted at best. His mind kept replaying the homeless man’s eyes, his hard breathing and raspy plea for help. Oliver couldn’t focus on the service. He sang very little and didn’t stand at all. All he heard was the man’s plea. “Ayudeme…ayudeme…” the words burned in Oliver’s brain. He didn’t snap out of his trance until he heard the beginning of the Priest’s sermon. “Today,” the priest said, “we are going to read out of the gospel of St. Luke. Chapter ten verses 25-37. A pharisee tested Our Savior by asking who was his neighbor. In response the savior said this, ‘A man fell victim to robbers as he went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. They stripped and beat him and went off leaving him half-dead. A priest happened to be going down that road, but when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side. Likewise a Levite came to the place, and when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side. But a Samaritan traveler who came upon him was moved with compassion at the sight. He approached the victim, poured oil and wine over his wounds and bandaged them. Then he lifted him up on his own animal, took him to an inn and cared for him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper with the instruction, 'Take care of him. If you spend more than what I have given you, I shall repay you on my way back. Which of these three, in your opinion, was neighbor to the robbers' victim?’ He answered, ‘The one who treated him with mercy.’ Our savior told him to go and do likewise. So should we all.
How many times have each of us looked past the suffering of others in search of our own comfort?”
Oliver’s eyes stung with tears and his stomach sank to the floor. He thought he was going to be sick. The priest knows what I did. I let that man die. It’s all my fault. God is going to punish me. Tears began to stream down Oliver’s face and he didn’t think to dab them. They fell freely to the floor.
“I’ll tell you this,” the priest continued, “no one who looks past the suffering of another is acceptable in the sight of God. Such a man has great cause to repent.” The Priest preached with an unusual fervor.
“Each of you need’s to think about who you know whose needs you have over looked. Who could you help today, who can you bring the light of Christ to?—”
He might still be alive. I could still save him. I might not have to go to hell. Oliver sprang out of his pew and sprinted out the door, he didn’t bother to count his steps. He ran all the way back to where he’d seen the man.
But where the man had been there was only a chalk outline on a stain of dried red. The man had died. Oliver’s knees buckled. His whole frame shook as tears streamed freely down his face until his chest was soaked and his eyes ran dry. His fate was certain. He knew there was no way to escape hell now. There was no point any more. This man had died, and he had allowed it. Oliver’s thin frame slumped over the chalk outline. The cry of the dying man echoed in his head.
“Ayudeme…”
He had said no. I let him die. I killed him. I could have done so many things, but I didn’t. It’s all my fault all my damn insecurities. I could wash off germs but I can’t wash this off.
Oliver sat there for what felt like hours. He couldn’t escape his realization; this man’s death was his fault. He replayed a thousand alternatives in his head. If only he’d caught the first bus, if only he hadn’t fallen in the gum… but all roads led back to the same one. It was his fault and if he wasn’t so afraid of germs, and disease, the man wouldn’t be dead now. If only I weren’t such a coward, that man would still be alive. If only I could be a man…
All at once Oliver raised his slender frame from the ground. And he began to walk home. His eyes still burned red from tears. He tried not to count his steps home, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t try to ride the subway, he didn’t even consider it. When he reached the door to his apartment; He touched the door once, twice… he fought the urge, but he couldn’t resist and he touched it a third time. He ran up the stairs to his apartment at full speed, counting the steps to his room; his eyes burned from a fresh set of tears. I’m so weak he told himself. He quickly touched the doorknob, one two three before bursting through his door. Oliver collapsed on his floor shivering and shaking. Self loathing poured through his eyes onto the floor. He knew that he could never get past his habits. He knew then that he couldn’t live like this anymore.
“Ayudeme…” The man’s eyes burned into his soul from his memory. He ached in his helplessness.
Oliver crawled to the cabinet to his medicine cabinet.
“Ayudeme” The plea sounded more like an accusation. His eyes swam in his shame. He quickened his crawl to the medicine cabinet. He opened a bottle of Tylenol and tried to silence the voice. He downed the whole bottle. He wanted to stop the pain. This would be a neat death, a calm death. He didn’t want to leave a mess.
“Ayudeme”As the world swirled around him and his chest began to burn, he saw the man’s eyes accusing him…
“Ayudeme.”
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Latest short story, its a little jacked but enjoy
My bloody finger prints mar your once beautiful face like so much war-paint at Wounded Knee. The fresh cuts and old scars tell stories that only you and I know; stories I don’t want told. Oh God, what a waste, what a life to have led. My aching heart sharpens and cuts inward with each pulse. But who do I blame? Who do I resent, Is it you?
I hate you for dying.
Your last escape.You stole my sons from me, and my youth. You stole my love, cast me aside because I was coarse. Used me. But I love you. And to that last moment when with pleading eyes you begged me to stop, perhaps you loved me still. But then why would you, how could you do this?
Oh God, What have I done? Your mangled body accuses me. Dezzie, sweet Dezzie, my love. I get so caught up in the moment. There was no premeditation, no forethought, I swear it! I came for my sons. I came for Jack and Zeke… But then you were there, you shouldn’t have been here! You were supposed to be at work. If only you had done what you were supposed to!
I had watched for weeks, planning, plotting, but you were here. You stood in my way, in my boys way. You stopped them from seeing their father. You tried to run from me, but you couldn’t steal them. How could they grow to be men without their father?
You screamed as I pushed open the door; a siren that had to be silenced, you’ll scare the children. The boys they shouldn’t fear me. You had to be silenced, so I did what I had to do. I cupped my hand lightly over your mouth and urged, but you would not listen. You swung your arms and bit and hissed, like an animal. I had no choice, I had to fight harder and harder. Then I pushed harder. My teeth gritted, scowl fixed.I hugged you tight to stop the squeal. I squeezed so that you would stop. Stop your screaming and your fighting, and the harder I gripped and squeezed the harder I wanted to squeeze. I felt my strength, my power. I relished the moment, until that sickening pop. Your ribs snapped; I could feel them move inside, like shards of glass. Slicing and tearing your insides with each short gasp. Then I dropped you, laid you on the ground. Not dead, but sleeping.
You didn’t stay silent long. You gasped for the boys to run. Run far away, to a neighbor’s house before I could get them. You pleaded with me to let them go. What am I, a monster? I called to Jack, but he would not come. He was crying. You taught him that. That is not what a man does. “Men don’t cry,” I told him. “Now Come HERE” But he would not come. He just cried. He’s not my little man any more. I walked to him to take him, rescue him from you and your weakening influence. He recoiled. He resisted me so I grabbed him, and shook him. “You’re ten years old dammit, act like a man!” I yelled at him. I shouldn’t have done it, but he wasn’t listening. He wouldn’t obey. Oh Dezzie, they took so much after you. He cried when I yelled at him. So I slapped him, told him to shape up, be a man, just like my father taught me. But he kept crying, “You killed mommy, you killed mommy.” The accusation again, I couldn’t stand it. I tried to stop his screaming, but he wouldn’t stop until my knuckles were bloody, and he lay lifeless.
Oh Dezzie how could you do this to me. You stole Jack from me; made him weak like you. And Zeke, oh Zeke, he was curled up under his bed; scared out of his mind. He didn’t want to come with me either. You’d poisoned him too. Nine years old, his black hair hidden under that blanket that we’d given to him as a present so many years ago; why is he hiding? He hides because you told him that I was a bad man. Dezzie, he fought me as I pulled him from under the bed, I pulled and he scratched and bit, like you. I grabbed him by the throat and pulled until he gave way. Such a small boy, but he has so much fight. He would have made quite a man, big and strong like his dad. I carried him to the doorway, where you and Jack were stirring.
You cried out for me to stop, “Don’t take my boys from me!” you said. Don’t take your boys, don’t take your boys, they were our boys. You took them from me first. I was so surprised by your yell that I stopped, and as I looked at you, you shrank from me. “What did I ever do to you, what are you so afraid,” I exclaimed, “If you had only loved me, none of this would have happened. If you had stayed with me in my weakness; if you had loved me as I loved you, we could have been happy together. Why don’t you see that?” you looked up at me, at a loss for words. Are you surprised that I love you? Is that it? Oh Dezzie, if you only knew. My whole body is in anguish over you. I’ve lost you.
But my pain and my shame was not enough. You let out a terrible scream, a plea for help. Your voice was full of tears, and hate. I had to stop that sound, that infernal screeching. Don’t you understand I couldn’t take it anymore. You wouldn’t listen to reason. You wouldn’t quiet down. I had to cover your mouth again. You fought more spiritedly this time, but it was to no avail. As you fought your body twisted and convulsed. You moved my hands from your mouth down to your throat, it was no longer enough to muffle the noise, I had to stop it, but you would not relent. Oh Dezzie I didn’t want to do it, but the more that you fought, the stronger I had to hold on to you. The tighter I gripped your neck, the more power I felt in my arms. My hands became the edges of a vice that I no longer controlled. Every twist of your body was the turn of the screw. My hands forced farther and farther inward. My face contorted into a mask to match yours. That face that was no longer yours; Eyes bulging and tongue hanging out, like some Maori warrior, the scars like tattoos of battles lost. The fight was over. I didn’t even have time to mourn. Jake was trying to call the police, he’d gotten up, he was crying into the phone. I took it from him and slammed it down. “What do you think you’re doin’ you little shit. I slapped him again, and again… He’s lost a lot of blood. He hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
Oh God Dezzie what have I done. Zeke is hiding, I don’t know where he is and I don’t have the heart to find him. Jack’s on the floor, by the phone. I can hear the phone beeping out his vain attempt at rescue. Look what I’ve become. I’m a monster. I’m just like you. You did this to me. It’s all your fault. I know what I’ll do, I’ll get your gun, no one can stop me then. I know that you keep it in the headboard of your bed… it should be… yes here it is.
I’m so sorry.
I love you.
Good bye.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Ok so I have a new idea for a story I hope that it turns out well. It's gonna be about hell. Actually i want the title to be Hell - A beginners Guide. It's going to be satirical. I hope to have the first chapter or so on the blog in a week or so. i want to turn it into novel. more of a novella really. i need to turn it in to Ypublish this next week though, I hope that i can find the time to write it.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Ok so I just joined this writing group at school, I go to BYU, and It should force me to pump out a story each week. So i should be writing a lot more than i have been which will be good. this week i want to write a love story, simply because i've never done it before. i have no idea what to write though. i think i want to loosely base it on the song vindicated by Dashboard Confessional. But we'll see how it goes.
Friday, September 11, 2009
this is the second thing i ever wrote. I don'r claim that they are good or original
The Thief
By Michael Youngberg
This is not a happy little tale; no story is if it’s told long enough. There is no happily ever after. Everything I tell you here is true, but who really gives a shit anyway right.
My name is Johnny boy, or at least that’s what all my friends call me. I am a thief, not a crook. I want to make that perfectly clear from the get go. Thieves steal so they can live the life that all us who are smarter than the system deserve to live. Crooks do it to define their lives, they are their last job. Fuck them. I AM A THEIF, not in the
I’m gonna do this.
“So we’re really gonna do this,” I ask.
“Yeah dude, all you’ve got to do is go up to the clerk, tell him you’ve got a gun, and tell him you want all the money in the register. Forget about the safe, it’s just a ploy to get you to wait until the police arrive. ONLY TAKE THE MONEY OUT OF THE REGISTER.”
Simple
Easy
“Okay here I go,” I say hoping I sound more confident than I feel.
I checked the parking lot for cops and there were none there. I’m not getting a spot on ‘World’s Dumbest Criminals’.
I walk slowly up to the cashier, still on track. Give me all of your money. I have a gun.
Calm
Cool.
Then the cashier does the unexpected, he asks, voice cracking, “Let me see your gun.”
So I pull it out, it’s a cap gun, painted black. Luckily he was no NRA member. The smell of fresh urine starts to fill the room. His pants are getting dark; his hands shake as he gives me the money, I can taste his shame. I tell the Pussy to put his hands behind his head and kneel down.
Just as planned.
I put the cap gun to the base of his skull and tell him to never give my description to the Police. I tell him to trigger the alarm as soon as he can count to 1,000. I tell him the next customer into the store works for me, and he will be watching, and listening to his every word
Do not fuck up.
If you fuck up, you’re dead.
He has no questions for me. Amazing how a gun can make everything so clear.
I’d gone into this store almost every week for the last month, and picked up the same drink, same shitty microwave burrito, and used the same damn lotto numbers every time, he always needed to hear them like five times. Always rang up the burrito more than once and yet now, with his useless little pathetic existence on the line, the man was almost a functioning person.
Amazing
This rat-hole reeks of the poor bastard’s urine now. He starts counting, and I walk out of the store covering my nose to keep from gagging on the fear and piss smell. We make off with about $3,000 in cash. I’ve done it; I just made $3,000 for about five minutes of work.
Simple
Easy
* * *
After my first taste, I’m hopelessly addicted. I’d never work at McDonald’s again. I’ve found a way to make thousands in mere minutes. I was still in High School at this point, but who needs that when you’ve got it made in the shade for the rest of your life. I drop out. I don’t think my Mom even noticed. It’s not her fault; she’s way too busy working three jobs to support the family my bastard father left her with. Dad left us years before, had to run off and start a new family in a
My four brothers and I were all told to make successes out of ourselves. To finish school, get a good job, and support a family. I was the oldest, so all that pressure went to me first. I dealt with it, and even did well with it until I realized that I could make a lot of money now with my new ‘career’. I started bringing home a good portion of my money and Mom never really asked me any questions. She didn’t want to know, and I guess I really didn’t want to tell her either; all she cared about was that we could finally afford all we needed.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no Robin Hood. I kept most of it for myself and the stuff I wanted, After all I was the one earning the money. But it was this way that I set up college fund for all of my brothers, some of whom actually used them for college. Hell one of my brothers is a lawyer, that aught to come in handy. Any ways I kept robbing liquor stores for a few years, and made a good living at it too. But I wanted more, like moving on to harder drugs after smoking a lot of pot. I needed more of a buzz. I started knocking over banks (This is about Five years ago), now that’s a rush. You have to a whole hell of a lot more home work on it if you plan on staying free though.
Guard Schedules.
Staff members
Points of entry
Alarm Systems.
It takes about three weeks of good planning, with multiple scouts, to get ready for the hit. So we rob a lot of banks all around the country, not near home. You shouldn’t shit where you eat. The take at these banks can be vast though. Each teller can have around $10,000 dollars in all their drawers. And if you plan it right there can be up to eight tellers on the floor, in a larger bank. $80,000without breaking a sweat. Most have only two tofour on the floor on a regular day, but $40,000 aint too shabby. And with a crew the size of mine, we can hit up to four banks a month, all around the country. That’s a lot of money. It’s the best job in the world.
Simple
Easy
All of us, my group, have our own reasons for doing it. Wrench, our wheelman, has a new baby. Dom, alarms and security, is mildly addicted to coke, and women; and the latter is far more expensive. And of course, there’s Twitch, Twitch is like me. He does it for the rush and because it’s far easier than a legit job. Twitch and I are the gunmen of the group. Sounds safe having a guy named twitch as a gunman, huh? That’s actually how he got the name. It was back when we were robbing liquor stores.
You see Twitch used to drop acid every once in a while. That shit stays in your system for like twenty years or something. So we’re hitting up this stop’n’rob outside of
“Oh shit,” I think, “the shop keep has a gun. Jack (That’s his real name) is gonna die.”
So I get up out of the car and draw my gun, while running toward the store. I aim the gun at the counter but the cashier is on the floor crying while the gun continues to fire, so I look up and there’s Twitch, yelling and firing at the ceiling randomly.
“Damn, these animals, they’re everywhere!” he yells.
“What the hell are you talking about,” I shout over the din.
“The bats,” he yells, continuing to fire off his last few rounds, “they’re everywhere.”
“Dude… There’s nothing here,” I say calmly as I take the hot, empty gun out of his hands. I grab what I can out of the register as I walk him out of the store.
“Sorry about the mess kid,” I say to the sobbing cashier.
Once I get Twitch into the car to make our get away, he begins to explain what happened.
“Man, so I was standing there, doing everything right, ya know, like we planned. And then outta nowhere I hear this loud screeching, And I look all around and these monster bats start flying all around me and I’m thinking, “I’m gonna Die, These bats are gonna eat me.” That clerk’s got balls though dude, he didn’t even flinch until I started shooting at the beasts. Then he freaked and hit the deck. Then I ran outta bullets and you came in and rescued me… we, we got the money right?”
“Yeah man, we got the money.”
Ever since that we’ve called him twitch. He also has I tick where his hands are all jittery because of a decade of drug abuse, but he’s clean now. That’s why he still works with us; you’ve got to be sharp in this line of work. Any ways, Fuck Twitch, he’s the reason I’m in this mess in the first place.
Bastard
Narc
Anyways, back to the op; basically we go in, steal everything we can, and get the hell out of there before the po-po shows up. Smash and grab job. After each heist, whatever we choose to do with the money is up to our own discretion, as long as it doesn’t : A, Get you caught, B, get you killed, or C, get you so screwed up that there is no way you can do the next job. It’s not easy to find good safe criminals these days. Everyone is so fucked up on drugs or booze or women that you can’t trust ‘em any more. After all, a junkie will do whatever they can to get their next fix. That can lead to getting caught.
Lawyers
Jail
Ass Rape
Not exactly an option. So, no junkies. Now I know what you’re thinking, what about Dom and Twitch. Well, Dom is just an occasional user, he doesn’t live to use. Twitch on the other hand; he used to be a junkie. He had it really bad, but we all helped him kick the habit. That was the longest month of my life. That bastard kept trying to escape to find his next hit. And when he wasn’t attempting escape he was clawing at imaginary assailants, and vomiting. I thought he would die. I didn’t get much sleep then, I know he didn’t. Had to be done, it’s just so hard to find good criminals these days. He was just that, a good criminal; that is until last week.
Alright, I think its time we got to why I’m writing the story of my life. My lawyer, my brother Marcos (told you it would come in handy), asked me to write this story so he could see if there was anything he could use to spin the jury in my favor. You see, we got caught, and I’m facing hard time.
Federal Pen
Ass Rape
Thirty consecutive sentences of ten to twenty years, (with good behavior I could be out for my 400th birthday.)
Now, I say we got caught but that’s not exactly true. Twitch got caught. Caught in a routine DUI stop. He was Three times the legal limit, I do admire his style. That’s when he did something really stupid. He tried to bribe a cop out of a DUI ticket with $10,000, with a 2.4% Blood alcohol level.
$10,000
Stolen money
Recent bank Robbery
Ding! A little alarm goes off in the pig’s head. Now how does a man in a 15 year old beater car have $10,000 in cash, in hand?
Hmmm…
Well…
Gee, it doesn’t take a genius to figure this one out. So twitch gets taken downtown and gets put in a holding cell. He sings like a canary. He gets promised less time, only five to ten years for: assault with a deadly weapon, DUI, Driving without a license, tax evasion, attempting to bribe an officer of the peace, possession, and over thirty counts of armed robbery, and grand larceny, and unlawful discharge of a firearm. Hell of a deal. The next day the rest of the crew was picked up, they tore Wrench away from his family, Dom was a little coked out so he shot it out with the pigs, He lost; hard. And that leaves me…
I got picked up in a very rude way. I was on the john, of all places, making, well… you know, and this pig knocks my down and yells, “Get down on the ground!”
So I’m like, “What the fuck are you doing, This is my home, asshole, get the fuck out.”
“GET DOWN ON THE GROUND, PUNK!” He yells again.
“I speak English you dumb-ass, I’m a little busy, come back in five minutes. It’s not like I can escape, No windows, dip-shit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me shit-dick, now run along now, I’m bus…”
That was as far as I got, a billy-club makes one hell of a silencer. When I woke up I was in the Interrogation room. They started to question me soon after-wards. All the usual stuff, did I do It, Why Did I do it, How they know it was me, telling me sob stories about the people that I robbed, how I ruined their lives. All that crap. I simply smile and say, “Don’t I get a phone call?”
Of course I call my brother Marcos, the Lawyer. He shows up playing everything from the race card to police brutality to god knows what else. Damn I’m glad I paid for his college. He bails me out.
Make a break for it?
No, that would be way too easy. We go back to his office and spend the night getting my story straight. My grand jury is set for the next week. Luckily all the bastards have on me is the word of a convicted multiple felon. With any type of luck, I’ll be let off the hook after the meeting. Who knows?
My brothers been on he phone for a long time now, he left the room about an hour ago when I started writing this. When he comes back I was about to ask who he was on he phone with, but he’s way ahead of me.
“John, I’ve got some great news, That was the prosecutor, he’s offered us, ten years, with possibility for parole after five. They’ve got nothing on you. However, I suggest you take it. It’s just about the best deal I’ve ever brokered.”
“Bro, that’s ten years, that’s a long fucking time,” I say.
“It’s a lot shorter than life, don’t you think. It’s the best you’ll ever get. I can’t promise to get you off. They’ve got about 500 tapes of you and your crew, all over the country. Even though I can get the judge to dismiss the most of them, not all will be thrown out, we get one guy on the jury who thinks he can make you out, you’re screwed, all the sentences.”
“You’re my brother, What would you do?”
“Take the deal, If not for you do it for mom. You know she doesn’t want to see you behind bars for the rest of your life. Take the deal.”
“Fine, I’ll take it, but not in maximum security. Get me minimum, or at least medium, I don’t feel like being surrounded by guys who I can’t take.”
So I take the deal, hey I did do it after all, it’s only right that I serve a little time. I just hate the way I got nipped. I’d a rather got caught red handed.
Hand in the cookie jar.
Egg on my face.
You can never choose the way you go. So I’ll serve my time, and when I get out, right back to work,
Fuck the law.
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