The Samaritan (505 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 2 on 10 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by r0fl (View user info) at 2007-05-30 00:15:46 EDT
I opened my phone to read the text message addressed to all of us:
"O'Something's. 7:30. Beckett."
Great. Another Tuesday. Another day that I won't remember driving home, another morning where everyone that I work with will tell me I sound/look like shit. I respond:
"Done."
I nonchalantly finished all of my work, hopped on the internet and gathered some stats on Joshua Beckett, the Cleveland Indians, and other random stats about Sox greats like Denton "Cy" Young and Jim Rice to wow my friends with my baseball knowledge.
In my mind, I recite all of the things I needed to do before I got to O'Something's; eat supper, shower, take out forty bucks, stop at a dumpster. Time slipped by, the minute hand of the clock made its rounds and I made it to my car.
I popped my Civic into first and quickly into second, to get home and finish my errands before our weekly gathering and game.
Joe Castiglione of the WRKO Red Sox Radio Network read off the lineups and Cleveland's starting nine (in order) as I traveled South on I-91. I thumped the steering wheel as the exits swept by my right side. I took 3B, hung a left at the light and headed straight towards the ATM and dumpster.
An elderly lady was fishing for her card through her purse as I double parked near the ATM, and I graciously allowed her to enter before me as I collected myself.
"Again..." I told myself, sighed, and entered when she was finished. I entered my PIN, took our two twenty-dollar bills, and left. I jumped back into the Civic and drove to the Sunoco parking lot in the same mini-plaza.
If this were a movie, we would probably open up with me throwing something wrapped in a dishtowel that I bought from Target into the trashcan near the pumps in slow motion, flowing like a curve-ball, thumping hard with a thud into the rest of the refuse deposited by other travelers. The metal clang was dulled by the towel as it hit the basement of the can, filled mostly with Snickers wrappers and gasoline receipts. I tapped my right-side pocket, for two reasons.
One, to make sure I remembered it. I had started drinking rum since I left work. I felt pretty good by now, the numbers on the gasoline prices seemed fuzzy in my eyes (3.05 for unleaded, are you fucking serious?!) - I needed a new prescription for my contacts. The second was for good luck, I guess.
----
"How many multi-hit games in a row?"
"8 - now 9. Dude's on fire, man. Youk's hittin' like four-fifty during his streak. He's got more multi-hit games in a row as most major leaguers do a real hit-streak."
"Damn," two of them said, and we moved to a larger, more circular table.
It was Tuesday, and the five of us, Brandon, Chris, Ben, Justin and me were at O'something's, this shitty dive-bar near our undergrad school of higher education. We seem to have made it a habit since most of us graduated to go here on Tuesdays, as it was a random day of the week, before 'hump day,' and the Sox usually never had a day off on Tuesday.
We grabbed a more circular table, and mine and Chris's burger were delivered when we were almost finished two pitchers of Bud Light.
"You know Cy Young won 30 games in a season 5 times?" I remarked, when the conversation began to dull.
"No way," Ben said, implying that he figured it'd be more. The dude won 511 games in his career, and he felt the stat wrong.
"Way," I replied, and took a long, slow sip.
Brandon and Chris headed out for a ciggerette. In an hour, when they retreated once more due to Massachusetts law to the parking lot to smoke, they would stumble toward the Dunkin' Donuts (which was adjacent to O'Somethings), I would know were were on a record pace for alcohol consumption. Drunken fans in Boston hung five 8 by 11 inch signs with one letter (K) on them from the Green Monster.
I ended up sandwiched between Justin and Ben for the majority of the night once we found 5 stools at the bar, forced to listen to them reminisce about their days in undergrad at WNEC, where I met most of my comrades.
Beckett was pitching a helluva game, I'd say so, but maybe shouldn't have pitched the seventh since being on the Disabled List. A hardy discussion followed, but that is neither here, nor there.
A group of ten entered the bar noisily - clad in maroon "Baystate Softball" jerseys and began to order pitchers of Budweiser on their own and continued to add life and background noise to the atmosphere.
Okajima enters to pitch the ninth, more beer is ordered, and the bar begins to spin.
"You know," I announce, "we should make this O'Something Tuesdays," attempting to add some predictability to my hectic week. The notion is seconded and thirded, and the majority of us pledge to make it a reality on the following week.
I check my Seiko watch (a graduation present, I would never buy my own) at it reads 10:47 after the game is long gone, as well as a few extra pitchers of beer. We drink down the line and finish what's left of what we ordered. I catch eyes with the bartender, a young girl, my age, in a black dress.
"We're heading out," Chris states, motioning with his thumb to Brandon, who's already half out the bar, packing his Parliament Lights for the cigarette laden ride home before both of them. I never got that whole "packing" motion that the smokers do to their drug-of-choice, but I suppose that is also, neither here nor there.
Justin and Ben continue one of their stories of yesteryear, and I sigh. Time to head out.
My car radio is still turned to 105.5, a local Sports-Talk radio, I'm ashamed to admit. I suppose it calms me, let's me imagine Grady Sizemore at the plate as Castiglione announces the balls and strikes instead of Nelly Furtado or any other bullshit on the radio lately.
I maneuver through the side streets away from our new stomping ground, take the entrance to I-91 North, my eyes peeled.
I took an EMT class last summer (to help my Med School application), but never got certified. I always tell myself if something awful happens, to be mentally ready whenever a situation may arise. That hasn't happened yet, but I've come close.
People begin to call in on WRKO about the game, Beckett and Okajima's performances and the like, when I see it; blinking yellow halogen lights on the right shoulder of the road.
I tapped the right pocket of my American Eagle jeans, once for good luck, the second to make sure it's there.
I pull over with my hazards on and leap out of the driver's side.
"You alright, big guy?" I ask to the guy with an obvious flat. Scattered cars fly by us, blowing my hair slightly.
"Flat bro, thanks for stoppin'" he replies.
I'd later find out his name is Jose Rolon, a regular blood donor. Type O Negative.
"Spare?" I ask, and he nods yes, his well-groomed facial hair barely visible through our alternating halogen lights, blinking from the rear of our cars. His front-left was flat, away from the road.
Perfect.
We un-nestled the jack from the rear of his Dodge Caravan and began to jack up his car. I stood and observed, offering to put in on and help him out. I even had a Poland Spring's bottled water ready for him that I offered when I got out initially.
He bent down as he jacked it up, in an awkward position, almost proposing to their two-ton, rectangular assembly of metal, rubber and engine. His arms pumped furiously, a Puerto Rican flag tattoo on his arm glistening with sweat. I peered into the van, empty, with clothes and junk strewn about the seats.
I reached into my right pocket, coughing as I released the blade from its handle.
I bent over him, asking if he was all right.
"Yeah, bro, almost done."
My right arm flashed about his face, in a move that when I was younger, would throw him in a mean headlock. But tonight, with no cars scurrying by, the knife in my right hand struck his skin. I forced it toward myself, into his neck, and dragged it across his body and mine - at this point I was straddling his torso. His neck severed, his heart still pumping - blood painted his white Caravan crimson.
I can't describe a scream by a Puerto Rican man with his vocal cords severed. It's a gurgling, loud noise. That's the best I can do.
His body laid seizing for a few moments, moments I've never felt more alive - and Jose never felt closer to Death - before grabbing his wallet and walking back to my Civic.
No cars appeared on the horizon as I popped my trunk and grabbed a towel from a Reebok sneaker box and wrapped the knife in it.
I tapped the box twice before slamming the trunk shut. Once to make sure it's there, and twice for good luck.
At least I've got some regularity in my life now.
User Reviews
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2007-05-31 07:42:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I could have done so much better with this one, I now realize. Thanks for the responses. I'll try better next time.
Submitted by sexualchocolate1984 (user info) at 2007-05-31 07:38:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good story, but too much baseball, and no need for the blood type bit.
Submitted by i_can_get_you_a_toe (user info) at 2007-05-30 20:55:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
maybe i'm going phsychotic, but this kinda seemed...jumbled and not really smooth to read.
still like it tho.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-05-30 14:30:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice job, and I didn't feel it was that predictable at all. But maybe I'm just naive.
Submitted by ChaosJester (user info) at 2007-05-30 13:26:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well written and I, too, lkiked the twist ending, but the whole bit about ol' dudes blood type gave it away for me. It seems a bit superfluous. Also, baseball is not really my thing. Other than that, pretty good...
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2007-05-30 13:09:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Jeebus.
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2007-05-30 12:43:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by zwerg (user info) at 2007-05-30 08:32:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well written, good twist at the end. I love Grady Sizemore.
Submitted by LittleMonster (user info) at 2007-05-30 06:11:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2007-05-30 04:02:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I like the sudden change, and it was near effortless. You kinda gave it away with the title though, as soon as you see the dude you know that one of you is gonna be violent.