Читать книгу Damaged Hearts - Jan St. Marcus - Страница 4

Fuck my life. Fuck. My. Life. Fuck, my life. I guess it doesn’t matter how I say it, or how many times I say it. It still adds up to the same thing: Fuck my life. It’s become sort of my motto. Or is it more like a mantra? Mantra? Where does that word even come from? “Man-tra”? Why not “Wo-man-tra?” Womantra. Why does it have to be man-tra? Huh? What? What was I talking about? Oh yeah. My motto. I don’t think I’ll ever say “mantra” again. It’s a stupid fucking word. Fuck my life. All eighteen years have sucked. Has it really been that long? It seems like forever. Eighteen years. It doesn’t even have a nice ring to it. Fuck. Here’s an example of how fucked my life is: Today is my birthday and I just turned nineteen. Wait. Maybe not. Let me think about this. They wait until you’ve actually “turned” one to start counting years, right? So after you’ve lived for a whole year, they say you’re a one-year-old. So if today is my nineteenth birthday, they call me nineteen years old and that means I’ve already lived for nineteen fucking years! Oh, my fucking God! My life has sucked ass for nineteen whole, fucking years! Fuck. My. Life.

All of a sudden, I feel really tired, so I stop walking and sit down on a damp bench near the boardwalk. It’s raining, I am tired, and my life sucks, so I sit here in the rain. Yay! Happy Birthday to me. My name’s Brandon in case anyone cares. Brandon Hawkins to be exact. And if you’ve been paying attention so far, I just turned nineteen, and I’m walking around the boardwalk in Venice Beach, California, on the night of my birthday. I have no idea what time it is because time isn’t a concept I’m very interested in right now. Or pretty much ever. I suppose if I had a home to go back to, or a job I had to show up for, or friends to meet and hang out with, maybe then I’d give a flying fuck about the time, but that’s not my situation. Not my life. I used to have that stuff . . . but wait . . . yeah, my life sucked back then, too. But that was almost a year ago. It’s not like I was living in a place I could call my own. I lived wherever they told me to live. Ate whenever they told me to eat. Sort of slept whenever they told me I could sleep. Oh yeah, and I killed people whenever they told me to kill people.

I mean seriously? You take a stupid seventeen-year-old kid who was living in the streets of Memphis fucking Tennessee and you actually give him an M4 rifle and tell him to go to some God-forsaken desert and kill people? Yeah, that seems like a really good idea, right? Not so much. On the plus side, I got this really dorky Mickey Mouse watch. Yeah. Seriously. Sergeant Kilroy gave me this stupid kid’s watch because I was always late for everything. I couldn’t even read the damned thing. Mickey’s stupid white-gloved hands covered the numbers and I couldn’t tell which hand was actually longer than the other, so when Sergeant Kilroy was screaming at me to tell him where the long hand was, I had to guess. Hey, I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, right? I always had trouble telling my right from my left, too. Made it hard to march. “Left-right-left-right-left” kind of gets screwed up when you don’t know which leg to start with. Sergeant Kilroy once wrote RIGHT on my hand with a big sharpie so I would know. I start laughing remembering how mad he got when I asked him to write LEFT on my other hand so I could tell them apart. I thought his head was going to explode. It actually did explode one day, but not because I asked him to write something on my hand. It was a sniper’s bullet. Shit.

I rub the spot near my left eye where a piece of his skull flew back and almost took my eye out. I know now that it was my left eye. One of the guys in my unit said that I walked around with Sergeant Kilroy’s brains on my face for about three hours before it finally fell off. Remembering that day makes today suck a little bit less. Not a whole lot less, but a little bit less. Looking on the bright side, though, because of Sergeant Kilroy’s efforts, I can now pretty much tell my right from my left. Pretty much. And I wore that stupid fucking Mickey Mouse watch until they discharged me early because of my injuries. The guys used to give me a hard time about it because it wasn’t a gift, like he woke up one day and said, “Hey, I like Brandon. I think I’ll give him a cool present.” It wasn’t like that at all. It was more like, “Let me give all these other teenaged fucking losers another reason to dump on the stupid kid.” Sorry. I forgot what I was talking about. I’m hungry. Damn. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything all day.

I drag my tired ass off the bench and for some reason I can’t even begin to explain, I wipe at the seat of my pants. As if wiping them would remove the thick coating of sweat, dirt, sand, and grime that has been steadily thickening for the past three weeks. This realization makes me smile. I start walking towards the pizza and hot dog stands down by the main part of the boardwalk. There are usually some half-eaten hot dogs or pizzas in the trash bins. It’s only been raining for about an hour, and it’s not hard rain or anything. Just that annoying misty sort of rain, so whatever I dig up won’t be too soggy. It’s late enough that the shop owners won’t have a shit-fit with the homeless kid rummaging through their trash. I tried doing it during the day one time, and I thought the guy was going to have a coronary he was yelling so loud. I don’t need that kind of shit today. Or ever. So I’m okay waiting until it’s pretty empty to do my rummaging.

I look at rummaging for food more like shopping in a really cheap, really rundown store. The difference is there are no cash registers, and you don’t have to pay for the shit you find. You just stand there over the trashcan and browse around until you find something. Like maybe half a hot dog. As long as it isn’t too far down, chances are it hasn’t been underneath a bag of dog shit or a dirty diaper or something totally gross. Maybe a drink has spilled on it. Other than the soggy bun, the actual hot dog would be fine. Of course, if a drink had spilled on it, there wouldn’t be any ketchup or mustard, so it would be kind of bland. But that’s okay. Wait. I said “ketchup.” I’ve been in California too long. Down south, we call it “catsup.” Mustard is the same pronunciation I think. But the difference between “ketchup” and “catsup” can be a thing for some people. I feel my mouth getting a little wet on the inside thinking about hot dogs. I head for the hot dog stand first. Closed. That means they have probably already changed the trash bags. I won’t even bother going over there.

But a little ways down, the pizza joint is just closing down. They have those ridiculously big slices of pizza and most people who don’t weigh at least three hundred pounds can’t finish their slices. Fuck the hot dogs. Half of a giant slice of pizza will do me just fine. Besides, trying to remember to say “catsup” instead of “ketchup” would make my brain hurt. And if I’m being honest, I do see the frat boy douchebags laughing and being all loud and douchey, but I really want to see if they’ll leave some of their slices uneaten. So I hang back a little and pretend to be looking for something on the ground. After about a minute or so, they drop their slices on the counter and start walking away. Score! I walk towards where they left their pizzas with my head down, like I haven’t noticed what they left for me. They’re about twenty feet away when one of them turns back and clocks me checking out their pizza. The fat one grabs the other one’s arm and points to me. I look up and see them seeing me seeing their pizza. Did that make sense? Fuck it. So anyway, as soon as they notice me, I kind of figure that they are going to be douchebags about their pizza, but I hold out hope. The fat one doesn’t need any more pizza, that’s for sure, but my stomach is getting the better of me, so I speed up a little bit. They’re closer and they return to the counter, beating me there by three steps.

Then the fat one, who seems to be the leader of this fucked-up pack of douchebags, picks up what’s left of his slice and lifts it up in my direction, like he’s offering it to me. Really? Maybe they aren’t such douchebags after all. I lift my eyes and start to smile. I’m going to thank him. I’m actually going to say “Thank you.” I do manage to smile as I approach because I realize that I haven’t said two words to anyone all day. He looks me in the eye and when I start to reach out my hand, he hocks a big ol’ lugey and splats it right on the pizza. Then he holds it out like I still want it. Okay, I know it’s probably gross, but I do still want it. His aim was pretty good and the glob of spit and snot has landed pretty much in the middle of the slice. But I could tear the pizza around the gross part and still have a pretty good amount of food. So I reach for it and he must have seen my eyes studying the pizza because he hocks another one and it lands on one of the good sides. He starts laughing and then his friends start laughing and they’re staring at me and laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Assholes.

I turn around, about to say, “Fuck my life” again when one of the other guys apologizes and offers me his piece. It’s not as big as the fat guy’s, but it still looks good to my hungry young ass. And I can’t believe I am so hungry that I start to walk back over and take it, but I do. You can probably guess that he does the same thing his leader does and hocks a lugey and spits on his piece, too. My stomach growls with as much anger as I am feeling and I turn around and start walking back towards the boardwalk. It’s going to be a long night.

Their laughing stops and I hear a deep voice talking to them. “Why would you do something like that? What kind of asshole do you have to be to fuck with someone who is obviously hungry?”

As I turn around, I see the fat guy step in front of the other guy, who is six inches taller, and the frat-boy leader guy speaks in this bullshit little sing-song voice: “What business is it of yours, asshole?”

The guy just stands there, hands by his sides, not seeming to be bothered by the fact that there are three of them. Then he laughs. He looks right at the fat-assed guy and laughs.

“Asshole? You spit on a piece of discarded food so a hungry guy can’t eat it and you are calling me an asshole?” He laughs again. I smile as I listen to him because here is this stranger sticking up for me, and he is so calm.

The leader’s friends start talking to him—I guess trying to get him to walk away—but he stands right there, getting angrier and angrier, and the stranger guy just stands there like he’s discussing the weather. “Right now, you’re probably wondering if your friends are going to step in to help you if you take a swing at me, right?”

Both of the douchebaggy friends look at each other and then they look at the stranger and they actually take a step towards the stranger guy and the fat-assed guy smiles. “What if they were?”

The stranger guy laughs again. “They won’t. They think they will, but when you swing at me, I’m going to break your fucking arm so quickly they won’t realize what happened until they hear you scream like a stuck pig. Then they’ll run.”

Okay. This is pretty fucking cool. The guy’s voice is still calm as fuck. I mean, he could have been an Algebra teacher talking about the Pythagorean Theorem or something, but he’s talking about breaking the guy’s arm. Ha ha! What a fucking badass. The leader frat-boy is sweating now, and he and his friends are looking at each other like they didn’t hear what the stranger guy said.

“They’ll come back and get you eventually. But their first instinct will be to run and save their own asses. They may like you, but there’s no way they’re going to get their asses kicked because of your fat, dumb ass.”

I am enjoying the hell out of it as the leader’s friends try to get him to leave and they’re looking at each other and then at the stranger guy and I can tell that the fat-assed guy is going to do something stupid and then just as I am thinking it, he pushes one of his friends away and I see his hand pull back like he’s going to punch the stranger guy and then I see this blur and I hear a loud crack and the guy falls to the ground holding his arm and screaming like I haven’t heard anyone scream since I was in the Marines and then the two other guys are running like hell. Holy Shit! That just happened.

So the stranger guy pulls his phone from his shirt pocket and dials three numbers and as he’s talking, he’s looking around, sees a street sign and tells the person on the other end of the phone where he is. And now the stranger guy is walking towards me. Oh shit! Why is he walking towards me? What the fuck does he want from me? Is he crazy? I mean, what the fuck! I know I am looking around like a crazy person, but who the fuck is this, and why is he walking towards me? I’m not panicking or anything. I used to be a Marine. But what the fuck? Okay. Maybe I am panicking a little bit because . . . well . . . because what the hell just happened? Now he’s right in front of me.

“Are you okay?” he asks me.

“What?” was all I could manage. I don’t think I heard or understood what he said because his eyes are this bright gray color and they sparkle. I mean, they are bright gray but they have little darker spots in them, so it looks like they’re glowing. I think I might be hypnotized or something. I’ve never seen eyes like that. And I think he is Black or Latino or mixed or something. And I’m still trying to figure it out when he asks me again:

“Are you okay?”

“I heard you. But why are you asking me if I’m all right? I’m not the guy whose arm you just broke. I mean, seriously? Am I all right? Are you all right?”

He smiles and looks me right in the eyes. “I’m fine. Sorry you had to see that.”

“He deserved it,” I say. “He so deserved it.”

“No. I don’t think so,” he says softly. The stranger guy looks genuinely sad. Is he sad? What does he have to be sad about? The guy totally deserved it. If there was a dictionary definition of a guy who deserved to get his fucking arm broken, that fat-assed, douchebag, frat boy’s picture would be right there.

“Yeah? Well maybe we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that, okay?” I tell him. The stranger guy looks me in the eyes again and smiles a little bit.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“I guess.”

“Can you stick around and talk to the cops? Tell them what happened?”

“Yeah. Of course. You were kind of sticking up for me, right? It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks.” And then he walks back towards the fat-assed guy who is still rolling around on the ground. Now his screams are mixed with these disgusting sobbing and sniveling sounds. His friends stopped running at the end of the block. I see them standing there arguing. Probably arguing about whether or not to help their friend. The stranger guy was right. He takes a few steps towards them and then waves at them.

“Come on back here and be with your friend. He needs you.”

Wait! What? This is some seriously surreal shit. He breaks the guy’s arm, asks for my help, and then tells them to come back and help their friend. I mean, what? I’m thinking about it all again as the sirens get louder. He’s walking back towards me, and I just stand there, not knowing what to think or say or do. He must see my state of confusion or whatever, and he smiles a little bit again. “I’ll get you something to eat when we’re done here.”

“Okay,” I say, and I stand there waiting for whatever else is going to happen tonight.