Perandorrrr
12-25-2010, 06:41 PM
Delaware Bull
Free him! They say and have said. Say: we listen…finally.
Leery eyed and with much disdain Chris’s soul was dismantled and then tugged by an imaginary pack of carriers, all bearing the multiple faces of their sore leader. Chris felt as if a stone-blind enemy gaped at his bones with a xyster. A freeman never the thane – forced to drink poteen. He saw his dreams wander without guidance down the rivulet. This is how our dear friend Chris felt every morning going to work, if only we could help him. Savoir-faire; our delightful friend refuses to fall for temptation no matter how often he stare at that door, slightly cracked open, wondered, but never knowing what is on the other side.
He stood. He sat. I doubt I would ever forget the site that was: inside a typical gas station on the side of the highway, a place to fill up on gas and maybe pick up some milk for your morning coffee. It was the place he worked, right across the street from an auto mechanic shop. It was the place he worked. Long after he leaves, the hardwood floor squeaks in recognition for the man. The nicest man no one knows. His full name you might ask? Christopher…Christopher Wentworth, that’s it! It is here in this citadel of gas fumes where Chris has sat and thought on many occasions. Staring at this intimidating figure you would never think he was tormented during his school days. Till this day if he hears someone screaming abruptly or a fistfight about to erupt, his body whales in predetermined defeat. His broad lengthy shoulders and shapely muscle bound arms become lanky and harmless; nervous he gets. His deeply set, dark, mysterious eyes could tell tales, but no one would listen, or so he thinks. Chris is someone you sort of feel sorry for without ever really knowing him. It’s in his mannerisms, his sighing, and his speech. I can picture an ‘out of Towner’ just passing through and paying his gas total, being totally enamored with Chris’s genuine voice saying ‘thank you’. It grabs your attention. You want to create something to talk about because he just has that magnetic pull; an Aussie would refer to him as a ‘dinkum’. Very few know about the pain endured by Chris. It leaves you to wonder if his ‘lucky’ day will ever come. Or maybe it already had and hardly enough luck was left for Chris; he’d have a better chance of inventing it. If bottled Chris’s good soul would pass it around his whole town before using it for himself.
On a semi breezy spring morning, a Monday of all days, Chris sat and thought about what a gorgeous day it was. You see it had rained all weekend leaving Chris with nothing to do. He paced around his tiny space, scratching his bald glistening head. You see Chris wasn’t going bald, he just felt free as if he started a brand new life within his life every time he shaved his head; It was a new beginning every time. So the past was washed down the sink, or so he believed. If he tried hard enough he could make anyone believe.
Customers came in and out purchasing candy or drinks, a few customers bought gas. Other then that it was a relatively quiet morning. Just as things could not be anymore dull, he saw from his window the red Chevrolet pull up to pump #4. Chris’s heart thumped and even skipped beats. The red Chevrolet pulling up to pump #4 was none other then Antigone. Chris paced and though of something witty to say, every time he tried, he shot off the mark as usual. Chris ran his fingers across his baldhead as if he had thick, oily, shoulder length hair. He looked at his computer screen to try and get a good reflection of himself, hoping to look his best. The door rang open and Antigone smiled at a nervous Chris. “Hello, Chris”, she spoke, oh so gently. Chris fidgeted with the set of store keys and blurted: “I’m doing just great, how are you? How’s your family? This is some crazy weather, huh?” Antigone smiled and didn’t even have a chance to answer one of three questions. “I’ll take ten on pump four”. Chris hadn’t charmed her, but he realized giving something free always works. “Fill it up, Antigone” as Chris sucked in his gut that he had promised himself he would lose for the past two years. “Really?” Antigone questioned. “Sure, don’t worry about it” as Chris quietly gasped for air trying to contain himself -- because this was the first conversation that lasted longer then 8.6 seconds. Chris opened and closed the cash register repeatedly. Antigone smiled and said “thanks, Chris” as she walked out while Chris ogled his favorite body part of Antigone, “Callipygian”; he uttered and then exhaled an amount of wind that could knock off the council’s wigs in the House of Lords. “Damn it!” Chris angrily spoke, “I gotta hit the gym already”. Chris wasn’t obsessed, just really attracted to Antigone. Being locked in a store all day just about anyone would seem attractive. But, Antigone truly was beautiful, by almost anyone’s standards. Every time she walked in she gave him this tingly feeling felt as a young man; it was an excitement, an urge, it wasn’t sexual, though. Seconds of her time made his whole existence have meaning. Chris would cling to his pillow at night, not in fear, but imagining the pillow was Antigone and he was wrapping his timber like arms around the petite frame of Antigone; protecting her, having that feeling of protection, like living under the apartment of a police officer. Chris imagined many things involving Antigone. He would imagine wining and dining her with gifts, strolling barefoot on the sands of the Al-Arab hotel in Dubai. He felt she deserved it, but even in a perfect world Chris probably wouldn’t get too far. His insecurities, not unlike any other man, rampaged his thought process. Chris rarely looked in the mirror, only if had too, and if he would, he would avoid eye contact. I would guess, depending on the season, or idiotic ideal perception of what attractive was in the world poor, Chris did not fit that. He wanted to change his look, he really did, but every time he was about to start he would think, “Why should I?” and wallow back into depression. He’d rather sit down and concoct Ralph Kramden like schemes on getting rich fast. When that would get old, every now and again Chris would picture his store being robbed and him having the chance to be a hero -- to be recognized and known. I don’t think it would be because of acclaim or having someone like Antigone notice. Just because he wanted to be a hero and if only for mere seconds, know what the feeling of a hero was. He knew the feelings of depression all too well. He wanted a change. He was tired of carrying himself around helplessly; he wanted to do something big. Embodied in Chris was regret from his High School years. Regrets of not trying, not applying himself, wondering about the ‘what ifs’ that plague man daily. It would usually happen on a Saturday night where for a short moment he, the only man in the world, had power never before seen in man, where a stroke of his finger could quell the rumblings of the past, cure disease and save himself from a lifetime of depression. And then, slowly, it would all fade away leaving Chris back where he started. But, yes, as I was saying, it would usually happen on a Saturday night. I wonder why a Saturday night, maybe a mental regression to his younger days of staying home on Saturday nights; imagining driving in a car full of friends from school, laughing, talking about the hottest girls in school, whom they thought would lose their virginity first although never admitting they were virgins. Poor Chris sat home Saturday nights and vicariously lived through the lives portrayed in teen movies. One would ask with such a magnetic attraction and aura why Chris not really had friends. I really don’t know to be honest. The saddest part was that he was in his mid-twenties not realizing what adventures the future held for him. He didn’t realize it wasn’t too late, that it’s almost never too late. Although still a young man, Chris hadn’t aged too well, he looked like he could be in his early thirties and slouched on his chair like an elderly man.
Chris sat with the palm of his hand nudged into his cheek, not looking confused, but bored to death. He glanced over to his trusty cash register that hasn’t broken down on him yet. He stopped and thought about the man or woman who put it together. He wondered where they were at that moment, he was thinking what they were doing, were they still alive; with his fingertips, squishing the tips of the bills on his tight pant pockets, he wondered if the maker of the cash register had ever used one of those bills. If maybe the young man he had an argument with on the highway last year was the son of the maker. Chris noticed the numbers one three and seven where all faded in comparison to other numbers. You could still see them, but they were just used more then the rest. Briefly entering his thought was that maybe it was a sign from the gas station disciples to play those numbers on the upcoming lottery drawing. Chris would have said Gods, but he only believes in one.
At around the time of lunch, strolling in on top of the world was Chris’s boss, Mr. Carnigetty as confident as ever. His custom cut Brioni suit did not match the interior of the mini/mart. Mr. Carnigetty liked Chris, but Chris, like most people are, was very nervous in front of his boss. He always went out of his way to impress him or try desperately to make him laugh or smile. “Hello, Mr. Carnigetty. How are you doing today?” “Well”. Mr. Carnigetty spoke his one word. Mr. Carnigetty stood small, but his ego and pride has the roots and center depth of an unstealthed mountain. Ego and Pride were one in the same for Mr. Carnigetty. A son of wealth, he never understood what the workingman felt like after a hard days work. He tried to understand, but it was never felt. In the matter of experience: a person’s words may guide you, but the full depth of understanding must be first hand, not hear say. Or forever your sight will seem pre-natal and your aim surmised. Mr. Carnigetty wanted to be a commoner and even tried to have conversations with Chris about common things. “Chris, I see the young people these days wearing odd clothing” he spoke, waiting for the right occasion to tell Chris. “I think the name of the clothing is called ‘Spiv’s Jeans” he asked. “Do you know of these jeans Chris?” “Yes!” Chris anxiously responded. “It’s a type of clothing that caters to people with bad taste” he reaffirmed. “HA!” Mr. Carnigetty questionably laughed… it appeared he actually had a soul. Mr. Carnigetty laughed…and laughed, almost to the point of insanity. When asked a question, Chris usually stood there dumb founded as if for a brief moment he was robbed of his common sense and wasn’t able to speak until he had nothing to say. He often re-played conversations in his head later when it was too late, he would fill in a joke when it was all too late, wishing he could have thought of it on the spot, but he wasn’t so quick-witted. Finally, he was on time after always believing he was a moment or two late in life. “So, who makes those clothes, Chris? My nephew asked me to buy him a pair”, Mr. Carnigetty asked. “I believe the maker is from the Bronx. I’m not really sure”, Chris replied. “Ah, the Bronx. The land of the double-parked, a place where you learn to speak Spanish fluently without ever really trying”. Both men started to laugh. When Mr. Carnigetty saw Chris laugh right away he knew it was ok to laugh. Never one to miss a moment where could prove to be human Mr. Carnigetty chuckled at an unthinkable volume; sighing dozens of times after the laugh. Mr. Carnigetty stops. “Seriously, Chris. In the world we live in, if trends ceased to exist there would be mass suicide”. Chris stopped, thought and noted. “That is the sad truth, sir”. “Anyway, Chris. I should be on my way. Hold the fort down good man.”, Mr. Carnigetty encouraged Chris. “Yes, sir”. Chris saluted as he watched Mr. Carnigetty stroll out with an extra hop in his step, probably repeating the jokes he just said to himself.
At around seven in the afternoon Chris got ready to go home. He swept up and cleaned his counter for, Bill, who was supposed to relieve him. As he was just about to put on his dusty Carhart jacket, Bill called in sick. Although sounding fine and his words could be interpreted as one of a liar, Chris didn’t mind too much and slowly threw his jacket on the wobbly and loose fitting of the tired coat hanger. He just sat down and put his head down; the rest of the night went rather slow.
At eleven-thirty Chris picked up and re-read the sports section of the day’s paper. He only had a half-hour to go before locking up for good this time. He leaned on his chair with one eye cracked open incase someone came in and thought he might be sleeping. He dosed on and off again, sporadic moments he would breathe heavily and loud and others you weren’t sure if he was breathing at all. All of a sudden the front-end of the red Chevrolet pulled up to pump #4. Chris peaked open and jumped right up out of his chair trying to look as if he was wide awake. He rushed to turn on the radio at a higher volume and took sips of his now warm Ginger Ale, still carbonated because when he sat it down in swished and swizzled. The door burst open with Antigone and her boyfriend, Blake, stumbling over each other to walk in. Although still early in the mind of an alcoholic, the pair had been drinking heavily up until now, not looking stable to drive. Chris stared with envy at Blake, a good-looking guy who had the woman of his dreams. He couldn’t believe how lucky Blake was. Antigone tried to walk toward Chris without stumbling, looking as if she needed to borrow Winston Churchill’s cane to walk, seeing this poor site he would have gladly lent it to her. She approached Chris slowly with some crisp bills cusped in the palm of her soft hands. “Hello, Chris, may I have twenty on #4”, Antigone barely spoke without slurring. Chris smelled the stench on her as her pores opened from the heat of the alcohol. Antigone had on a slender cut white dress that would fit on someone with impeccable shape as she had. It was cut in a way to expose the mid-riff and accentuate the hips. Antigone smiled trying to downplay her inebriation. Blake leaned against the potato chip stand dozing off into his yuppie dreams. “Antigone, you don’t look like your OK to drive. Maybe you should go across the street to the coffee shop and sober up. I’ll wait here until you finish”, Chris spoke wholeheartedly. “The night’s just begun pal” blurted by the idiotic specimen we call Blake. Antigone put on a pouty innocent face, much like a young girl who upset her father. She wanted him to feel bad for her. “Come on Chrissy”. She seductively tried to coax Chris. “No, you’re not well” Chris said, begging her to understand. “I thought you said this guy was obsessed with you?” Blake unfortunately confessed. Chris was heart torn but maintained his composure, but you knew later when he had time to think about it, he would be at a loss. “What? I’m supposed to f--k you? I say ‘hello’, I crack a smile I’ll even laugh a little, what else do you want?” Antigone said. Antigone said it in a way where you could believe it was rehearsed in her head or in front of her mirror waiting for the day to finally say it to Chris. “I know what he wants”, Blake said winking at Chris repeatedly. A ‘guy’ wink, “I get you man, you want to get in her pants. It’s cool”. These people weren’t worth ten-seconds of Chris’s time, yet he was giving them eleven. Chris, already embarrassed, spoke from his heart. “Look, I don’t want either one of you hurting yourselves, now go sober up”. In an instant as though Chris were her worst enemy, Antigone’s face turned to pure evil. Actually, the man who got her pregnant last spring and walked out on her before the abortion hadn’t gotten her this angry. Antigone placed the twenty dollar bill on the counter, “here is something to remember me by”, Antigone with an evil demeanor, was smiling. You could detach her mouth and stare at her eyes and see how she really felt, but not for too long, who knows what you would turn into. Antigone left the store and got in her car, Blake got in the front seat as he turned on the car. He revved up the engine to a monstrous level, surprisingly the engine left with the car. Chris tried to ignore them and flicked the money off the counter with his long, dirty, uncut fingernails and hoped for the day to finally come to an end. Chris paced around and looked for a brief moment at the shotgun hidden under the counter incase of a robbery, he looked and thought many thoughts. He went over to at least feel the gun he had known about for a long time, but never used or even held. As he picked it up he looked at his life and dreams moribund and decided maybe this had gotten too rough. He held the gun tightly. His palm grinded against the box shapes on the wooden handle of the gun. His sweaty palms would still not give it a chance to slip off. For a slight moment he looked as though he was going to…”CAR’S ALREADY!” Spoke the mechanic wiping the sweat dripping from his thick brow. I put down my newspaper to pay the man. As I went into my pocket to pay the man I looked across the street and wondered if I should fill up before I continued my road trip. I glanced at the bill and paid the man with my sweaty, wrinkled, and unorganized stack of bills. “You mind if I finish your paper?” the mechanic asked. “Not at all” I replied as I handed him the newspaper. “I looked around the waiting area; a very metallic old smell resonated. I wondered if I would ever see this man again or if I ever would stop by here. Before I left I noticed a cheap “gold” plated plaque with a black background, with a quote from Norman Winchurch. I heard of him, a great man from what I heard -- he was beheaded in modern times in the town square in the city of Nalpsetaf. He was beheaded for wanting to change the corrupt government system in his city. I read it before I left, it said: “I fail to understand why pale believers inhabited in scenes and patterns of discountenance, constantly search for a veil or distraction from their own embarrassments. Brothers – need not to ascertain an amount of esteem to fulfill the world; just enough to satisfy the person birthed by your mother”.
As the man left auto shop the mechanic noticed markings and doodling all over the classified section of the newspaper, “Spiv’s Cleaners in the Bronx” in particular. Inside the gas station across the street was a bald headed heavyset man at the counter. A very timid insecure man, he looked at you and then looked down right away. Almost like you noticed his receding hairline and he was embarrassed about it. He was actually a fair-looking man, from what people said, a very good man also. He’s the type of person you like so much you constantly think of new tests to put him through hoping to find a flaw. I
suppose the world could give him a compliment and he would find something wrong with it.
-ID (Spring, 2003)
Free him! They say and have said. Say: we listen…finally.
Leery eyed and with much disdain Chris’s soul was dismantled and then tugged by an imaginary pack of carriers, all bearing the multiple faces of their sore leader. Chris felt as if a stone-blind enemy gaped at his bones with a xyster. A freeman never the thane – forced to drink poteen. He saw his dreams wander without guidance down the rivulet. This is how our dear friend Chris felt every morning going to work, if only we could help him. Savoir-faire; our delightful friend refuses to fall for temptation no matter how often he stare at that door, slightly cracked open, wondered, but never knowing what is on the other side.
He stood. He sat. I doubt I would ever forget the site that was: inside a typical gas station on the side of the highway, a place to fill up on gas and maybe pick up some milk for your morning coffee. It was the place he worked, right across the street from an auto mechanic shop. It was the place he worked. Long after he leaves, the hardwood floor squeaks in recognition for the man. The nicest man no one knows. His full name you might ask? Christopher…Christopher Wentworth, that’s it! It is here in this citadel of gas fumes where Chris has sat and thought on many occasions. Staring at this intimidating figure you would never think he was tormented during his school days. Till this day if he hears someone screaming abruptly or a fistfight about to erupt, his body whales in predetermined defeat. His broad lengthy shoulders and shapely muscle bound arms become lanky and harmless; nervous he gets. His deeply set, dark, mysterious eyes could tell tales, but no one would listen, or so he thinks. Chris is someone you sort of feel sorry for without ever really knowing him. It’s in his mannerisms, his sighing, and his speech. I can picture an ‘out of Towner’ just passing through and paying his gas total, being totally enamored with Chris’s genuine voice saying ‘thank you’. It grabs your attention. You want to create something to talk about because he just has that magnetic pull; an Aussie would refer to him as a ‘dinkum’. Very few know about the pain endured by Chris. It leaves you to wonder if his ‘lucky’ day will ever come. Or maybe it already had and hardly enough luck was left for Chris; he’d have a better chance of inventing it. If bottled Chris’s good soul would pass it around his whole town before using it for himself.
On a semi breezy spring morning, a Monday of all days, Chris sat and thought about what a gorgeous day it was. You see it had rained all weekend leaving Chris with nothing to do. He paced around his tiny space, scratching his bald glistening head. You see Chris wasn’t going bald, he just felt free as if he started a brand new life within his life every time he shaved his head; It was a new beginning every time. So the past was washed down the sink, or so he believed. If he tried hard enough he could make anyone believe.
Customers came in and out purchasing candy or drinks, a few customers bought gas. Other then that it was a relatively quiet morning. Just as things could not be anymore dull, he saw from his window the red Chevrolet pull up to pump #4. Chris’s heart thumped and even skipped beats. The red Chevrolet pulling up to pump #4 was none other then Antigone. Chris paced and though of something witty to say, every time he tried, he shot off the mark as usual. Chris ran his fingers across his baldhead as if he had thick, oily, shoulder length hair. He looked at his computer screen to try and get a good reflection of himself, hoping to look his best. The door rang open and Antigone smiled at a nervous Chris. “Hello, Chris”, she spoke, oh so gently. Chris fidgeted with the set of store keys and blurted: “I’m doing just great, how are you? How’s your family? This is some crazy weather, huh?” Antigone smiled and didn’t even have a chance to answer one of three questions. “I’ll take ten on pump four”. Chris hadn’t charmed her, but he realized giving something free always works. “Fill it up, Antigone” as Chris sucked in his gut that he had promised himself he would lose for the past two years. “Really?” Antigone questioned. “Sure, don’t worry about it” as Chris quietly gasped for air trying to contain himself -- because this was the first conversation that lasted longer then 8.6 seconds. Chris opened and closed the cash register repeatedly. Antigone smiled and said “thanks, Chris” as she walked out while Chris ogled his favorite body part of Antigone, “Callipygian”; he uttered and then exhaled an amount of wind that could knock off the council’s wigs in the House of Lords. “Damn it!” Chris angrily spoke, “I gotta hit the gym already”. Chris wasn’t obsessed, just really attracted to Antigone. Being locked in a store all day just about anyone would seem attractive. But, Antigone truly was beautiful, by almost anyone’s standards. Every time she walked in she gave him this tingly feeling felt as a young man; it was an excitement, an urge, it wasn’t sexual, though. Seconds of her time made his whole existence have meaning. Chris would cling to his pillow at night, not in fear, but imagining the pillow was Antigone and he was wrapping his timber like arms around the petite frame of Antigone; protecting her, having that feeling of protection, like living under the apartment of a police officer. Chris imagined many things involving Antigone. He would imagine wining and dining her with gifts, strolling barefoot on the sands of the Al-Arab hotel in Dubai. He felt she deserved it, but even in a perfect world Chris probably wouldn’t get too far. His insecurities, not unlike any other man, rampaged his thought process. Chris rarely looked in the mirror, only if had too, and if he would, he would avoid eye contact. I would guess, depending on the season, or idiotic ideal perception of what attractive was in the world poor, Chris did not fit that. He wanted to change his look, he really did, but every time he was about to start he would think, “Why should I?” and wallow back into depression. He’d rather sit down and concoct Ralph Kramden like schemes on getting rich fast. When that would get old, every now and again Chris would picture his store being robbed and him having the chance to be a hero -- to be recognized and known. I don’t think it would be because of acclaim or having someone like Antigone notice. Just because he wanted to be a hero and if only for mere seconds, know what the feeling of a hero was. He knew the feelings of depression all too well. He wanted a change. He was tired of carrying himself around helplessly; he wanted to do something big. Embodied in Chris was regret from his High School years. Regrets of not trying, not applying himself, wondering about the ‘what ifs’ that plague man daily. It would usually happen on a Saturday night where for a short moment he, the only man in the world, had power never before seen in man, where a stroke of his finger could quell the rumblings of the past, cure disease and save himself from a lifetime of depression. And then, slowly, it would all fade away leaving Chris back where he started. But, yes, as I was saying, it would usually happen on a Saturday night. I wonder why a Saturday night, maybe a mental regression to his younger days of staying home on Saturday nights; imagining driving in a car full of friends from school, laughing, talking about the hottest girls in school, whom they thought would lose their virginity first although never admitting they were virgins. Poor Chris sat home Saturday nights and vicariously lived through the lives portrayed in teen movies. One would ask with such a magnetic attraction and aura why Chris not really had friends. I really don’t know to be honest. The saddest part was that he was in his mid-twenties not realizing what adventures the future held for him. He didn’t realize it wasn’t too late, that it’s almost never too late. Although still a young man, Chris hadn’t aged too well, he looked like he could be in his early thirties and slouched on his chair like an elderly man.
Chris sat with the palm of his hand nudged into his cheek, not looking confused, but bored to death. He glanced over to his trusty cash register that hasn’t broken down on him yet. He stopped and thought about the man or woman who put it together. He wondered where they were at that moment, he was thinking what they were doing, were they still alive; with his fingertips, squishing the tips of the bills on his tight pant pockets, he wondered if the maker of the cash register had ever used one of those bills. If maybe the young man he had an argument with on the highway last year was the son of the maker. Chris noticed the numbers one three and seven where all faded in comparison to other numbers. You could still see them, but they were just used more then the rest. Briefly entering his thought was that maybe it was a sign from the gas station disciples to play those numbers on the upcoming lottery drawing. Chris would have said Gods, but he only believes in one.
At around the time of lunch, strolling in on top of the world was Chris’s boss, Mr. Carnigetty as confident as ever. His custom cut Brioni suit did not match the interior of the mini/mart. Mr. Carnigetty liked Chris, but Chris, like most people are, was very nervous in front of his boss. He always went out of his way to impress him or try desperately to make him laugh or smile. “Hello, Mr. Carnigetty. How are you doing today?” “Well”. Mr. Carnigetty spoke his one word. Mr. Carnigetty stood small, but his ego and pride has the roots and center depth of an unstealthed mountain. Ego and Pride were one in the same for Mr. Carnigetty. A son of wealth, he never understood what the workingman felt like after a hard days work. He tried to understand, but it was never felt. In the matter of experience: a person’s words may guide you, but the full depth of understanding must be first hand, not hear say. Or forever your sight will seem pre-natal and your aim surmised. Mr. Carnigetty wanted to be a commoner and even tried to have conversations with Chris about common things. “Chris, I see the young people these days wearing odd clothing” he spoke, waiting for the right occasion to tell Chris. “I think the name of the clothing is called ‘Spiv’s Jeans” he asked. “Do you know of these jeans Chris?” “Yes!” Chris anxiously responded. “It’s a type of clothing that caters to people with bad taste” he reaffirmed. “HA!” Mr. Carnigetty questionably laughed… it appeared he actually had a soul. Mr. Carnigetty laughed…and laughed, almost to the point of insanity. When asked a question, Chris usually stood there dumb founded as if for a brief moment he was robbed of his common sense and wasn’t able to speak until he had nothing to say. He often re-played conversations in his head later when it was too late, he would fill in a joke when it was all too late, wishing he could have thought of it on the spot, but he wasn’t so quick-witted. Finally, he was on time after always believing he was a moment or two late in life. “So, who makes those clothes, Chris? My nephew asked me to buy him a pair”, Mr. Carnigetty asked. “I believe the maker is from the Bronx. I’m not really sure”, Chris replied. “Ah, the Bronx. The land of the double-parked, a place where you learn to speak Spanish fluently without ever really trying”. Both men started to laugh. When Mr. Carnigetty saw Chris laugh right away he knew it was ok to laugh. Never one to miss a moment where could prove to be human Mr. Carnigetty chuckled at an unthinkable volume; sighing dozens of times after the laugh. Mr. Carnigetty stops. “Seriously, Chris. In the world we live in, if trends ceased to exist there would be mass suicide”. Chris stopped, thought and noted. “That is the sad truth, sir”. “Anyway, Chris. I should be on my way. Hold the fort down good man.”, Mr. Carnigetty encouraged Chris. “Yes, sir”. Chris saluted as he watched Mr. Carnigetty stroll out with an extra hop in his step, probably repeating the jokes he just said to himself.
At around seven in the afternoon Chris got ready to go home. He swept up and cleaned his counter for, Bill, who was supposed to relieve him. As he was just about to put on his dusty Carhart jacket, Bill called in sick. Although sounding fine and his words could be interpreted as one of a liar, Chris didn’t mind too much and slowly threw his jacket on the wobbly and loose fitting of the tired coat hanger. He just sat down and put his head down; the rest of the night went rather slow.
At eleven-thirty Chris picked up and re-read the sports section of the day’s paper. He only had a half-hour to go before locking up for good this time. He leaned on his chair with one eye cracked open incase someone came in and thought he might be sleeping. He dosed on and off again, sporadic moments he would breathe heavily and loud and others you weren’t sure if he was breathing at all. All of a sudden the front-end of the red Chevrolet pulled up to pump #4. Chris peaked open and jumped right up out of his chair trying to look as if he was wide awake. He rushed to turn on the radio at a higher volume and took sips of his now warm Ginger Ale, still carbonated because when he sat it down in swished and swizzled. The door burst open with Antigone and her boyfriend, Blake, stumbling over each other to walk in. Although still early in the mind of an alcoholic, the pair had been drinking heavily up until now, not looking stable to drive. Chris stared with envy at Blake, a good-looking guy who had the woman of his dreams. He couldn’t believe how lucky Blake was. Antigone tried to walk toward Chris without stumbling, looking as if she needed to borrow Winston Churchill’s cane to walk, seeing this poor site he would have gladly lent it to her. She approached Chris slowly with some crisp bills cusped in the palm of her soft hands. “Hello, Chris, may I have twenty on #4”, Antigone barely spoke without slurring. Chris smelled the stench on her as her pores opened from the heat of the alcohol. Antigone had on a slender cut white dress that would fit on someone with impeccable shape as she had. It was cut in a way to expose the mid-riff and accentuate the hips. Antigone smiled trying to downplay her inebriation. Blake leaned against the potato chip stand dozing off into his yuppie dreams. “Antigone, you don’t look like your OK to drive. Maybe you should go across the street to the coffee shop and sober up. I’ll wait here until you finish”, Chris spoke wholeheartedly. “The night’s just begun pal” blurted by the idiotic specimen we call Blake. Antigone put on a pouty innocent face, much like a young girl who upset her father. She wanted him to feel bad for her. “Come on Chrissy”. She seductively tried to coax Chris. “No, you’re not well” Chris said, begging her to understand. “I thought you said this guy was obsessed with you?” Blake unfortunately confessed. Chris was heart torn but maintained his composure, but you knew later when he had time to think about it, he would be at a loss. “What? I’m supposed to f--k you? I say ‘hello’, I crack a smile I’ll even laugh a little, what else do you want?” Antigone said. Antigone said it in a way where you could believe it was rehearsed in her head or in front of her mirror waiting for the day to finally say it to Chris. “I know what he wants”, Blake said winking at Chris repeatedly. A ‘guy’ wink, “I get you man, you want to get in her pants. It’s cool”. These people weren’t worth ten-seconds of Chris’s time, yet he was giving them eleven. Chris, already embarrassed, spoke from his heart. “Look, I don’t want either one of you hurting yourselves, now go sober up”. In an instant as though Chris were her worst enemy, Antigone’s face turned to pure evil. Actually, the man who got her pregnant last spring and walked out on her before the abortion hadn’t gotten her this angry. Antigone placed the twenty dollar bill on the counter, “here is something to remember me by”, Antigone with an evil demeanor, was smiling. You could detach her mouth and stare at her eyes and see how she really felt, but not for too long, who knows what you would turn into. Antigone left the store and got in her car, Blake got in the front seat as he turned on the car. He revved up the engine to a monstrous level, surprisingly the engine left with the car. Chris tried to ignore them and flicked the money off the counter with his long, dirty, uncut fingernails and hoped for the day to finally come to an end. Chris paced around and looked for a brief moment at the shotgun hidden under the counter incase of a robbery, he looked and thought many thoughts. He went over to at least feel the gun he had known about for a long time, but never used or even held. As he picked it up he looked at his life and dreams moribund and decided maybe this had gotten too rough. He held the gun tightly. His palm grinded against the box shapes on the wooden handle of the gun. His sweaty palms would still not give it a chance to slip off. For a slight moment he looked as though he was going to…”CAR’S ALREADY!” Spoke the mechanic wiping the sweat dripping from his thick brow. I put down my newspaper to pay the man. As I went into my pocket to pay the man I looked across the street and wondered if I should fill up before I continued my road trip. I glanced at the bill and paid the man with my sweaty, wrinkled, and unorganized stack of bills. “You mind if I finish your paper?” the mechanic asked. “Not at all” I replied as I handed him the newspaper. “I looked around the waiting area; a very metallic old smell resonated. I wondered if I would ever see this man again or if I ever would stop by here. Before I left I noticed a cheap “gold” plated plaque with a black background, with a quote from Norman Winchurch. I heard of him, a great man from what I heard -- he was beheaded in modern times in the town square in the city of Nalpsetaf. He was beheaded for wanting to change the corrupt government system in his city. I read it before I left, it said: “I fail to understand why pale believers inhabited in scenes and patterns of discountenance, constantly search for a veil or distraction from their own embarrassments. Brothers – need not to ascertain an amount of esteem to fulfill the world; just enough to satisfy the person birthed by your mother”.
As the man left auto shop the mechanic noticed markings and doodling all over the classified section of the newspaper, “Spiv’s Cleaners in the Bronx” in particular. Inside the gas station across the street was a bald headed heavyset man at the counter. A very timid insecure man, he looked at you and then looked down right away. Almost like you noticed his receding hairline and he was embarrassed about it. He was actually a fair-looking man, from what people said, a very good man also. He’s the type of person you like so much you constantly think of new tests to put him through hoping to find a flaw. I
suppose the world could give him a compliment and he would find something wrong with it.
-ID (Spring, 2003)