The Fuse (284 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 0.66 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Pentameter (View user info) at 2006-10-23 14:16:29 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
I glared at the young Japanese gentleman through the window. The pavement was wet, and the blinking red traffic lights reflected onto his face, giving him some weird sort of angelic glow. On his dashboard, the little bobblehead dolls were still shaking their heads up and down, almost exactly in synch with the flashing lights.
My smile was wide as I asked, "Keroppi frog?"
Before he could even purse his lips to speak, I had already smashed through the driver's side window. My fist met with his temple, the tiny shards of glass imbedding into the side of his head. I don't know if he screamed, but if he did, it didn't matter. No one in our small town was out on the road except for us.
I popped the lock and opened the door from the inside. He cringed as I grabbed him by the collar and threw him onto the ground, where I continued to pummel him, landing blow after blow against his frail body.
"Please...please," he pleaded.
"Please what?" I asked.
"Please...s...s...stop," he sputtered.
With a deep breath, I stood up and cracked my neck. "Who fucking goes the speed limit in the middle of the night anyway, and then, who stops at a stoplight when there's no one around?" I asked.
He didn't respond, I mean really, what could I expect? I wiped the blood off of my hand with the cleanest part of my shirt and asked, "Mind if I give the little guy a new home?"
"Huh?"
"Keroppi. I kind of like him," I said as I yanked the doll off of his dashboard.
When I turned back, I almost felt sorry for the guy. Really though, I shouldn't have. It was his fault.
Stupid fuck.
I climbed back into my car, where I slammed the little frog down on my dashboard. "Do you think we should go home, pal?" I asked.
His head was tilted a little to the right as he nodded in approval.
The drive home is always long, no matter how close I might be. My body longs for the warmth of my bed and the comfort of my apartment. As my hands gripped the steering wheel, I could almost feel the soft sheets on my skin. My time to myself is limited, so I need to make the most of it.
Yeah yeah yeah.
No sooner did I toss my keys on my dresser than did the scent of smoke waft in through my bedroom window. The smell tickled my nose and called me, called me to go down to the corner store and buy a pack. Just one pack.
Just one.
I screamed, "Trisha, put out that fucking cigarette!"
Her gravelly voiced echoed in the empty street as she shouted, "Fuck you, Tom!"
Then she began to sing, "Poor Tom, Seventh Son, Always knew what was goin' on, Ain't a thing you could hide from Tom...."
She continued to sing as she walked into her apartment, and I could hear her feet stamping on the floor as she kept time with the music that was playing in her mind. The rhythm sounded like a heartbeat, and within a few moments I was lulled to sleep. I didn't even get to take my shoes off.
When I woke up the next morning, I still had that cigarette on my mind. The smell of smoke always made me feel sentimental. In my memories, I saw so many parties, smoky bars and impromptu get-togethers on my old neighbor's porch. We were kids and we didn't have one worry.
Not like now.
One thing I didn't miss about quitting smoking was walking past all the apartment buildings to get to the little bodega on the corner. Babies cried, mothers shouted and fathers cursed. Wives screamed and husband packed their lunches. The scent of human waste rose up from the sewers, and to me, it made perfect sense.
I had just woken up and I was already tired, standard fare for any weekday morning. When I walked into the store, everyone in line, which was already fifteen people deep, was holding a cup of coffee. I stood behind a young girl, maybe eighteen, nineteen, twenty. She was with some guy who she must have been interested in because I could just smell the desperation. Or maybe it was just her Calvin Klein perfume.
"Why don't you come to see me anymore?" she asked.
"I told you, I've been busy with a lot of things," he said.
"Oh, well...I miss you," she said with big sad eyes.
I was surprised I didn't vomit right at that very moment. Didn't she realize how disgusting she was? How lecherous and desperate and vile? Girls. Fucking idiots...especially the young ones. They see a reflection of themselves wearing white dresses in the eyes of every man they meet.
I knew a girl like that once.
As I stood there grinding my teeth and thinking about my girl, he said, "I miss you too," but the second she turned her head, he rolled his eyes.
Score a little victory for him.
Finally, it was my turn. Feigning politeness, I asked, "Pack of Basic Lights, please?"
He placed them on the counter, and as I fumbled around in my pocket for the exact change, I thought, "Why the hell should I have to pay?"
As the store clerk talked to one of the other customers, I picked up the pack and walked outside.
"Hey, you have to pay for those!" he shouted.
"I don't have to do shit," I mumbled to myself as I began tamping the cigarettes in my hand.
He ran after me, but I didn't change my pace. I could hear his footfalls heavy on the ground, his fat slapping against the other rolls on his tubby body. His fat was choking him. His blubber strangled his windpipe.
"Get back here!" he yelled through deep panting breaths.
No one tried to stop me as I walked back to my apartment.
Score a little victory for me.
Sure, people saw what was happening. They knew I had done something wrong, but the funny thing about people is that they don't want to get involved, they just want someone else to take care of things for them.
Just ask Kitty Genovese.
So, it was Tuesday or Wednesday. I couldn't tell you, because all the days melded into each other. One day I woke up and I wasn't a kid anymore. I was working to survive, to be a man and to be an adult and to be everything that I always wanted to be, but didn't understand until I had come to this point in my life.
That was all I needed to know.
Pot of coffee.
Scrambled eggs.
Toast.
As I took that first drag of my cigarette, the sting of nicotine in my throat made me gag, and instantly my heart began to race. Public services ads about the dangers of smoking ran through my head. "Smoking will kill you!" some stupid fucking celebrity would say.
If only I could be so lucky.
A quick look at the clock told me that I was going to be late to work. Instead of rushing, like I normally would, I pulled a book off of the shelf.
Bukowski. Brilliant.
I sat down in my ragged armchair and began to read in my loudest voice, "Men who stand in front of windows 30 feet wide and see nothing, men with luxury yachts who can sail around the world and yet never get out of their vest pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men like slugs, and not as good . . .and nothing, getting your last paycheck at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a barbershop, at a job you didn't want anyway. Income tax, sickness, servility, broken arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing come out like an old pillow."
Like a Pentecostal, I jumped up from my chair and felt the rhythm, felt the spirit and began to dance. I pulled the books from the shelves, tearing their pages out and tossing them into the air. With a few moments, I had smashed all of my furniture to toothpicks and had torn the carpet to shreds. As I lit another cigarette, I heard the blare of sirens in the street below.
There was a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Tom? Let me in! What's going on in there?" Trisha asked.
When I opened the door, I noticed that Trisha looked like a scared little lamb. "Don't be afraid, come in," I said.
She stepped into my apartment, among the dirt and the dust and the millions of papers that littered the floor.
"Someone called the cops. They're coming for you."
"What the fuck are they going to tell me to do? Clean my room?" I asked.
"Tom, you're scaring me," she said.
"Does this scare you?" I asked as I wrapped my hands around her throat.
"What's...what's...the....matter with you?" she asked between gasps.
"Trisha, I can honestly say I've never been better in my whole life."
"Tom...you'll...go...to...jail."
"Honey, anywhere is better than here. I think you need to go home now, it's getting late," I said as I tightened my grip.
She fell silent, and when I let her go, she landed on the floor in a heap. I cracked my neck as I heard the sound of footsteps running down the hallway.
They had no idea. They'd never understand. But maybe, just maybe...I could make them.
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