Let the rocks fizzle under the heat of flame and don't drop that bowl if you burn your hand. Inhale and exhale quick so the goodness doesn't cristallize your lungs ya like the rock candy you could make as a kid. Cigs are harmless next to that, so I don’t worry bout smoking them. But now that I think on it, it was that easy habit that started this all.
I loathe this place. The people here crowd you and your sights, and then expect you to hold their hands and wish them peace when the time comes. Stand, kneel, sit, but never relax. When we all chant the ritual words I feel so much like a zombie that I want to scream something ridiculous like “Brains!!!” Anything to wipe the blank, content looks off all their faces. But I will never do that. Instead, I dissociate myself from the entire affair by pretending that I have remarkable eyesight that allows me to observe from very far away. Actually, I try to copy the rest of the congregation in outward appearance, because I am a good father. I’ve become a master at filtering out the creaks and groans of the pews and the Priest’s monotone monologues, but I can’t ignore the occasional innocent, questioning gazes from the small forms on either side of me.
My boys Jack and Derek have somehow managed to go from best buds to petty rivals with the onset of Junior High. Derek is resentful about being a year younger than Jack and still in middle school, and Jack is adjusting to the intimidating world of junior high by treating Derek like a dumb baby brother. That’s why I stand in between them and give them angry looks along with some phrase like, “Cut the crap” whenever they start trying to pinch and jab one another behind my back. Something about growing up, I’m not sure, but the beautiful thing about being a parent is you don’t have to know exactly what you’re doing. You just have to show the kids love, give them some structure, and take care of them until they’re old enough to figure out things for themselves.
At the AMPM I got that giving urge that makes me special like I could do something real good for all mankind. They won't even have to thank me when I do it – how bout fire that you can carry anywhere – I mean ANYWHERE – the row of dollar lighters on the counter is already there and it didn't come from me... fuck Bic.
But the guy in front of me catches my attention when he finally chooses Camel 99’s -my favorite! This can’t be chance. So many AMPMs, lines, cig brands, and people too, yet we’re both here. This time and place!
I'm so giving that when the bills from his pockets fall short of a full pack, I don’t heztate. If I can make Mount Everest into a foothill, then 50 cents is less than nothing! I buy another pack for myself and follow him outside so we can both light up. My new friend is short, might be Hispanic, and he is overflowing with a secret.
Fate has brought me here – I must be patient. I just pace around and use my free hand to tap a beat on my chest, while I wait for him to say something. “Rock?” is what he says. A higher being must know that I have just finished the last of mine. I flash my remaining 10 dollars like a question mark. He nods as we both start heading toward the crosswalk.
I am blessed to meet a man of experience. Palm to palm is the best way. You’d have to be dumb as sin to get caught anywhere near a back alley. A perfect exchange. I ask his name just as he bolts across the crosswalk barely ahead of traffic. A man of experience! I grin at the mystery of it all as my hand caresses the beautiful, new bulge in my pocket.
For the sake of structure, we go to mass every Sunday, even though their mother Janet, who was the only real religious one in the family, is no longer with us. I’m not referring to some tragic death that brought the rest of us closer together as a family. No, she simply left about three years ago. Those crazy drugs that potential criminals take in back alleys can’t compare to the madness achieved by a combination of prescriptions found at any Walgreen’s. I hated watching her confuse the hell out of the boys by smothering them with hugs and kisses before shrieking at them for ruining her life, especially when it could happen in the span of five minutes. Although I try to save my cynicism for Mondays while I listen to insurance claims.
I want my children to be capable of finding their own inner joy by thinking for themselves. Dragging them to an organized ceremony every week may seem contradictory to my purpose, but I can tell that I’m doing something right by the way they fidget. Eventually, the boys will realize that they disagree with some parts of the structured religion adored by their father (so they think). I hope that at that point they’ll know the structure well enough to pinpoint the sections that disagree with them. Those dreadful Sundays can be thought of as spiritual building blocks.
Already pissed after the first hit, that fuckin' spic – not my usual deal but bacon cooked in bleach taste - kept smoking it anyway, but I just couldn’t take off. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just sat in our Bat cave and smoked the rest of my 99’s while staring at our house - really more of an uneven shack near the tracks. If you lie along the wall further from the train tracks in the biggest room, then you can slide down the floor all the way to the other wall. I don’t know the first color, but the house is blue-grey with a checkerboard roof and what we like to call open-air windows - cheaper to overlook than tear down.
How many tiles are still on that roof? 347? A train passed overhead so fast that the rumblings in my body kept on even after it was gone, like one of those high-tech jets - trains almost never took this route, and the ones that did just crawled along – and and and edge of a dark shape moved behind the back of our house. I have really really good eyesight - most other people would have missed it, the dark shape. The same black shape (or a different one?) peeked out the right front window before ducking down again. Another one over the rooftop - right front window again but different side - from behind a pile of rotting wood that could’ve been a front porch once, and then I felt it coming from the train tracks.
Makes you go cross-eyed from trying to look behind without actually turning your head. They must have come with whatever had passed overhead on the tracks that was not a train. I ran through my double vision without ever looking back.
I used to get extremely frustrated with my job at the insurance agency. No, I’m not going to mention the name of the company, because they’re all the same anyway. I kept the job because it was the highest paying position available for someone with only a few specialized skills and no real resume. I did it for Jack and Derek. I tried to keep the boys in mind, but the tedious format, constant paperwork, and a desk that was always too small ground away at my nerves. I was slowly beginning to lose my sanity when fortune came to a rolling stop against my rear bumper at a stoplight. The damage was very slight, so the other driver suggested that we “leave insurance out of this.” I couldn’t stop laughing, to the point that I had to hand him my cell phone to take down the number.
Hardly anyone lands a dream job, at least not twice. I realized I had been neglecting what I had been trying to teach my own boys. It was all just structures within structures: work that must be done, ideas that must be explored, ways that must be changed, and (nouns) that must be (verbs). If that sounds vague and confusing, then I’ve done a good job of explaining. Patterns of choice or even misinterpretation result in an ever-changing progeny of substructures that I prefer to call the human race. I was certain that any substructure achieving spiritual fulfillment, inner joy, or the same idea by any other name had a passion as its keystone. That last part in the barrage of ideas set loose in my head by the others driver’s rather ordinary choice of words was why I couldn’t stop laughing. I knew that in following my own advice I might encounter a serious problem or two. That’s how I decided to form a church for one.
We could hear/feel the rumblings several times on the way here. Probably reinforcements trying to stop us. But hills - no MOUNTAINS where we have the high ground. Hahaha we sure showed those fuckers! Movement on nearby slope intrupts. Halfway up the hillside someone steps out from behind a willow. A black lady with dreadlocks that copy the movements of the willow leaves in the wind. A beauty nothing like the black death at the train tracks. Not approaching is out of the question. Rumblings moving up the mountainside mean that black can only come in one color. That bitch! Just a trap, a trap set by them. I pick up a rock and chunk it at her – and I'm already moving cause I'm quick quick quick.
My passion? This is going to sound horrible, but I really love shooting people. Ok, that is almost certainly horrible, but I don’t mean walking up to a poor gas station clerk and shooting him in the face. Don’t laugh, but I used to be a sniper. That was my dream job. Joining the army after high school seemed like a good deal. Hardly any taxes, a very small chance of ever getting blown up, and travel opportunities reeled me in. When I took their eye exam, the doctor was amazed that I could read the eighth line down. He gave me a form to fill out and directed me to a special barracks. In only a few months time, I found myself hiding in some shrubs in Eastern Europe and looking through a scope at a human being instead of a moving poster target. They weren’t joking about travel opportunities. I’ve shot and killed 83 people in 26 different countries.
I’m not stupid or a sociopath. I realize that I was ending a human life, but people die all the time and in much worse fashions. I prided myself that none of my targets ever saw it coming, and if they blinked, they might miss their own death. It’s impossible to say whether or not all of those 83 deserved to die, so I decided not to worry about details only God can know.
Right before I pulled the trigger, I would feel an intense connection with the person in my sights. I can still remember every single face; maybe it was because I knew I was seeing them in their last moments. Sometimes I would lay concealed and silent for hours until I became part of the surroundings. The fact that a simple metal projectile could span such a distance always amazed me. The instant I pulled the trigger had to be perfect. My breathing had to match theirs exactly, and my entire universe had to fit inside that scope. Only the recoil against my shoulder could pull me out of that trance.
Valley is coming up and the far slope is clear - No more fake tree lady and her black death lies. Also there’s a brick house on top – command bunker! Plants grab for me with thorns on the way down the valley cause they're remote controlled. This whole mountain must really be a machine.
If I can get to the brick, the machine's command center, then I can control the mountain. But I made a mistake – the other valley side is open, exposed – target practice - black death crotched down pointing barrels at me. “Wait” What faggy last words - actually only one word. Damn.
But barrels are lowered and black death stands up and sinks back into the mountain, because it doesn't mind waiting. Wait... Hilarious! Trail of chuckles all the way back down to the train tracks. Time to comtimplate my near-death trip now… Nah. Maybe I’ll pay another visit to the Bat cave – see where those rumblings take me next...
The boys spend Saturday nights at their grandparents (my parents), eat Sunday brunch, and wait for me to pick them up for church. I’m never late. My parents don’t come with us, even though they made me go with them everyday as a child. I was one of those kids lucky enough to have great parents. They’re the reason I’m confident of my ability as a father. They’re also why I came home and stopped being a sniper. They wouldn’t have ever asked, but they need someone to keep the house up and help with parts of everyday life that the young take for granted. Job nearby, met someone, got married, but it’s not important. Saturday makes Sunday bearable.
There are some Mountains about three miles north that are great for hiking, so I pack a bag and hit the trails. Several miles in there’s a slope that offers a commanding view of the surrounding landscape. Four different trails intersect at this point, and I can look down into a valley that has a old brick weather station on one crest. This marks a service road that leads out of the wilderness park if a guy ever needs a quick getaway route. I leave the trail and head up the slope about fifty feet above this massive willow tree. I have to move about eighty pounds of rock before I can get started. Underneath is a long, black weatherproof case.
The night of my car crash revelation, I made a stop on the way home. I visited a storage locker that I hadn’t opened in over ten years. Now my left forefinger clenches slightly as I’m looking at my Schwizzmann 7200 rifle with telescopic sights and a 36-inch-long air-cooled barrel. It takes me less than a minute to set up the tripod and cover up with the long brown cloak that I packed in the bag.
Before long, a guy in odd hiking attire comes to the trail intersection. He’s wearing a dirty red jacket, long jean shorts, and some rubber orange shoes with holes in them. I just can’t understand why anyone would pay to have holes bored in perfectly fine shoes. I think they’re called Alligators. He walks jerkily before sitting down in the middle of the trail - looks like he’s talking to something cradled in his hands. I try to gauge his breathing when he stands up and looks in my direction. There must be a bird in the willow below, but I change my mind when I focus in on his face. He has bleached blond hair, a scraggly neck beard, and wild eyes that are staring almost straight at me as if transfixed. Impossible! There is no way he can see me, but my unease grows as he continues staring. I have never come across anyone who can sense they’re being watched at this distance. The oddest part is he’s smiling like he’s fallen in love with the barrel of my gun.
I can’t even think of moving my finger toward the trigger as I watch him. His smile vanishes suddenly and he looks at me like I’ve betrayed him. The whole scene is so ridiculous that he must be crazy. All my doubts vanish when he picks up a rock and throws at me. It lands about twenty feet below me. I let out a sigh of frustration but also exhilaration. This man must have some type of sixth sense! Well, let’s see how he reacts to my finger on the trigger. He sprints off towards the tree line of the valley before I can even translate my thought into action. It can’t be coincidence, so I must be witnessing something that can’t be structured. My hand trembles, which is a reaction even the most amateur sniper is taught to avoid.
I can’t get a clear shot at him through all the trees, because he moves erratically as if drawn in by random plants. I take breaths and remind myself that he can’t stay in those trees forever. He proves me right by breaking through to the open ground below the weather station. An easy target. He turns around abruptly and yells right as I pull the trigger. I jerk my shoulder back even though there’s no recoil, and he’s laughing. He must know that I never carry live ammunition anymore. My bag is repacked in under a minute again with mixed feelings of disappointment and satisfaction. I smile. Was it a sign? There is really no explanation for what just happened. He could have been an angel except for those dumb orange shoes with holes in them. Maybe I’ll see next Saturday.
