““…the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.”
He stares at me the whole time. His pupils are as black as gun barrels. I know I’m dead.
My bags are already in the trunk. Freshly minted ID. All ready. I just have to do my part, speak my piece and it’s over.
In fact, that was the exact phrase they had used. “It would be over before I knew it.” You know, that has an ominous ring to it.
“Well, I was walking from my office to the train as I usually do, but I decide to take a different route through the city that night. I’m just passing one of those huge steel girders … er … pillars … whatever you call them, you know, that hold up the railroad tracks. I had just noticed that someone had stuck a Starbucks cup in the spaces between the crisscrossed iron bars, held together with those big round-head rivets and I see two guys against the concrete wall opposite me. Real close, you know, facing each other. I wonder whether they’re sharing a real good joke or they’re a couple of drunks sharing a bottle in a paper bag, or, you know, maybe gay or something. Then I see the one against the wall kinda crumple forward onto the other guy. The other guy just sorta casually steps outa the way and lets him drop to the pavement. As he falls I saw the blood.”
“And did the perpetrator see you?”
“No, fortunately, I’m able to step behind another one of those iron posts just as he turns.”
“But you were able to see his face?”
“Yeah. The city had just installed some extra lighting because they wanted to convert that stretch under the tracks into a bike path. You know, with the green paint and reflective tape and all. Sheesh, these bicyclists are taking over the city, you know? I nearly got hit by one the other day. He was coming the wrong way up a one-way street. Then he has the nerve to yell at me!”
“Yes, Mr. Erickson. And is the person you saw in this courtroom?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can you point that person out?”
I point to the defendant. Alfonse Gulato.
Those twin gun barrels narrow and aim at my forehead.
***
I’m hustled out the side door of the courtroom before the echo of the gavel faded, down a dim gray hallway, and through a steel door with a small reinforced glass window. As the door swings open, the smell of truck exhaust fills the air. It gets stronger as the three of us step into the elevator, which had opened instantly at the Marshal’s touch of the button. I guess it’s a pretty special elevator, and I must be a really special guy. I’m not burning many calories during this walk, ’cause the two black suits are practically carrying me between them.
The Marshals peer around the doors as they rumble open, checking if the “coast was clear,” then whisk me across the strangely quiet parking garage and into a waiting, unmarked white van. I guess I am getting some aerobic workout, but it’s more from adrenaline than from my muscles. This is certainly the strangest ride I’ve ever been on. I’m beginning to feel like some cow heading from the feedlot, down the shoot to the processing plant. I’m just waiting for the bang on the head and the electric jolt.
Thankfully, the only contact with my head is the taller of the two Marshals pushing it down to clear the top of the van door, seconds before it slides closed. The engine was already running and hot—the obvious source of the fumes. They put it in gear, and we are out of here.
Fifteen or twenty minutes and about thirty turns later, we pull up in front of a forties-era, midrise apartment building, a mailbox and a couple of dead locust trees planted in the sidewalk. An old woman pushes a pram past as we pull to a stop at the curb.
It has been my home for almost four months. I’ve been sharing it with two or three guys from the U.S. Marshal service, two older and one just a recruit I think. One had trouble with gas, the other snored. I’m not going to miss them.
We’re just stopping long enough to pick up the last of my things and to swap drivers.
***
The driver drops us at Terminal C and the Marshal helps me get my bags over to the skycap in their dingy glass booth.
“As I said, everything will be waiting for you on the other end, just as we promised. Mr. Erickson. You have a chance to make a whole new life,” he said with practiced optimism.
I’m embarrassed to say I still don’t know whether this ‘whole new life’ stuff was a good thing or a bad thing. The life I used to have—what a strange way to say it—the life I used to have was pretty average. I had had some good solid jobs. No great corporate-ladder climbing, but still solid. I had some girls in my life. Even proposed once. Didn’t work out.
Being an only child of parents who had died in a car crash nearly 10 years ago wiped away that factor of my life. The pain had drained. Life goes on. Bills. Laundry. Bosses. Taxes.
There’s an uncle … my dad’s brother … in, where is it, Cleveland? Cincinnati? One of those two. But I was out of touch with him even before the crash. He and my dad had had a falling out because of a real estate deal gone bad, if I remember right. He’d probably forgotten my name long ago–which was handy since I didn’t have that name anymore. Hey! See how things work out?
So, now I have the chance to start completely over. Clean slate. ‘Tabula rasa.’ Wasn’t that the Latin word? I suppose some people would give their right arm for such an opportunity. Some people whose lives were really messed up, I guess. Not like mine.
What does piss me off is how normal they make it sound. They say it as if everybody does this. Like I’m going off to summer camp or college or something. Didn’t these guys have hearts? No, wait. These are U.S. Marshals. Absence of heart is in the job description.
“I can only express again the Service’s sincere appreciation to you for assisting us in apprehending and convicting one of our most wanted,” he droned on as I watched the terminal doors slide open, then closed, then open, then closed.
After months of nervous anticipation, sweating in protective custody in that second-rate hotel, eating deli food and watching cable TV, with gruff men in cheap suits, those doors would be the entrance to my new version of freedom. As I stare, I realize my breathing is matching the hiss and thump of those doors.
People elbow past, hurrying on their way to who knows where, oblivious to the yawning expanse of nonexistence stretching before me. I bend, grab the handle of my overnight bag, and wade into the flow.
***
Before I know it, I’m in my seat. At least ‘the service’ had sprung for first class. Nice. A little extra leg room. Free cocktails. A comfortable pillow and blanket. I intend to use them all.
Even before we reach altitude I’m already cruising on my third martini, drifting through clouds of dissipating memories. My thoughts just seem to come apart like so much tissue paper in a bowl of water. The fibers just melting and swirling away. Images of family, friends, acquaintances float up, then disperse. How could this be happening? Was it the alcohol? Will I even exist when we land, or will I just be vacuumed up by the cleaning crew during the preparation for the next flight?
I reach for my bag in a momentary panic as I forget my new name. ‘Carlton,’ my new passport, birth certificate, and driver’s license read. ‘Jacob Carlton.’ Should I go by ‘Jake?’ Hey, Jake, how are ya’? Where ya’ been, Jake?
Some sudden turbulence bumped my mood like a needle across an old LP. What if someone called my name and I didn’t respond. They’d know instantly I’m an impostor. I’d be caught. This would all be a wasted effort. That Gulato guy’s people would be there and I’d be dead. They have eyes everywhere, isn’t that what the WITSEC people had said. My heart starts to race. My palms got sweaty. I signal the flight attendant.
“Excuse me. Another one of these please.”
“We will be landing shortly, sir.”
“Oh.” I take a deep breath and try to settle back into my seat. She helps me retrieve my pillow which had fallen into the aisle.
***
The wheels bump and squeal on the runway and we taxi to the gate. I reach for my cellphone as was my habit. There is no cellphone. The flutters begin again. Now it all starts. Still trusting the bureaucrats to have made all the arrangements. They said there would be a driver waiting. He’d already have my bags.
I reach baggage claim and scan the gray terrazzo sea. The usual clusters of families, vacationers, businessmen on their phones milling about. Cleaning people, airport staff pushing wheelchairs, security agents strolling aimlessly, and black-polyester-suited drivers holding up their name cards just outside the ring of passengers impatiently eyeing the still motionless carousels.
For a moment I forget that one of those men is supposed to be waiting for me. I scan the signs. ‘Darren’ ‘Michaels’ ‘Santana’ ‘Franklin’ Oh great! No Erickson. The bureau has screwed up. I knew it! Now, what do I do? I take a few steps closer and sweep the drivers again. Still, no Erickson. I drop my carry-on and lean helplessly against a stainless steel pillar, my hand rubbing my brow in consternation.
Glancing down at my bag again I x-ray its contents in my mind. Socks, underwear, toiletries … New passport, driver’s license, credit cards. Oh!
My eyes lift and scan the claim area again. ‘Carlton.’ There he is, just to the left of the guy whose suit barely fits his generous middle. I scoop up my carry-on and head for my driver–I presume another Marshal in disguise–nodding upwards and making eye contact halfway towards him.
How many times will I make that mistake before my new name becomes … well … my new name? This is not gonna work! It’s insane. I’m insane. I should have just refused to testify. Someone else would have, sometime. Why did it have to be me? Now I’m trapped in this new life. Huh! Yeah, the agents had said, ‘you’ll be free again.’ What kind of freedom was this? With no name. No home. No friends.
In the back of the Town Car my mind wanders. If I’m free now, what was I before? Was I a captive? Was I a slave? A hostage? I didn’t ask to be a slave. I was just minding my own business! Just trying to make a living! Then, swoop, like some black cloud with wings all this happens. Sucked into a cyclone of police stations, lawyers, safe houses. Here I am, the good guy, but could anyone tell the difference between me and the criminal? I didn’t stab the guy under the tracks. I was just running for a train with a backpack full of papers and an empty lunch bag.
We’re on the road for about half and hour, then we stop. Why are we not moving? The driver lost or something? Sitting at the curb checking his cellphone for directions? I glance at the glass separating the two of us and notice he’s holding up a manila envelope. It just says ‘Carlton’ written on it in black sharpie.
“Number 23,” he finally says in a monotone of total boredom. Gee, thanks, buddy. Here I am, going through a complete life transplant and all you can eke out is ‘number 23.’ Not a ‘have a good day’ or, more accurately, ‘have a good life.’
I look out the window. A nice middle-class apartment complex in a middle-class neighborhood. Trees, southwest-style shrubs, mailboxes, artistically walled-off dumpsters. Even a clubhouse and a swimming pool. How nice. Just like I’d made it on my own. I try to forget it’s all pre-packaged. Some agency bureaucrat had these all preplanned and prepaid.
I step out and notice the car trunk is already popped, just as cool and nonchalant as his ‘number 23.’ All automatic. All in order. Delivery made. I suppose he’s going to want a signature on some handheld device.
I lift out my suitcase and head toward the complex. Unit 23 is in the building to the left. Up the walk, past the finely pruned shrubs, rip open the envelope, key in the lock, and I’m inside.
Free at last. Free at last. Thank god almighty I’m free at last. I collapse face-down on the bed.
***
My stomach wakes me hours later. It’s dark, cold. Empty but for the sounds of music and conversation from two units over. I stumble to the kitchen.
On the Formica-and-chrome table, food coupons from the U.S. Department of Agriculture “Do Not Fold Or Spindle” they warn. Next to them a checkbook and a credit card—both in my new name of course, and an appointment card with a representative at the State Department of Employment Security. It’s dated for 11:00 a.m. the next morning.
The next morning, I can’t sleep much past dawn—what with the jet lag and all. So I dress in my new sweats and Converses, and head for the corner coffee shop. Along with a large cup my usual, I buy a pound of my favorite grind. On my way back I stop at a small hardware store and pick up a coffee maker. Hey, can’t start a new life without coffee, right?
I finish off my store-bought cup and set up my new machine to brew one of my own. I thumb the appointment card once more. 11:00 a.m. Let’s see, it’s 9:15 now. I did see a bus stop right at the corner of the block, outside the Starbucks. Conveniently, there’s also a paper map on the counter by the rubber sink drainer. Left by a previous tenant or the Marshals. Who knew?
I listen to the hiss and gurgle of the coffee maker. A new life. A new city. Makes you wonder what you can take with you. What really belongs to you in the first place. All these rich schmucks with their big houses and cars. Think they own it all. Like nobody can take it away.
All I had to do was take a different turn at the red light, hoping to reach my train faster to get my favorite seat on the upper level. How was I to know that Mr. Gangster was getting ready to stab Mr. Doublecrosser right in front of me? I could’ve been there two minutes earlier or two minutes later. Mighta’ missed it all or just seen the crumpled body, with the purple pool oozing underneath it. But I had to be lucky enough to see the deed. Then it’s “up inside the cyclone, Toto.” Cops, police stations, attorneys, safe houses. You know, if this is how they treat the good guy …
Now I got no life. Now I gotta figure my way around a new neighborhood, a new city, a new state! Whether you actually like where you grew up, at least you can call it home, you know? At least it’s familiar. You can concentrate on other things, not just how do I get from here to there. Where’s the closest grocery store? Where do the good people live? Where do I avoid? It’s just not fair.
Huh! Well, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve said in a long time. I walk over and pour myself another cup of coffee. At least this is something you can bring along.
***
What a coincidence. The bus stops right in front of the unemployment office. I stare at the tan-brick government-style building. A couple of guys in overalls smoking, leaning against the plate glass front window, blinds askew behind them. Over there a family waits. Is daddy inside, begging for his life? My existence recedes several more inches. I hitch up my shoulders as best I can and walk towards the door.
The gray-green walls and dim fluorescents overhead add wonder to the already delightful scene. I walk up to the chest-high, chipped counter covered with taped-on official notices, all in four languages. I wait until the attendant senses there’ss a human being in her vicinity and acknowledges my temporary existence.
“Um hmm?” Is that a question? I assume it is and begin my request.
“I have an 11:00 a.m….” Before I finish, she points me to the rectangular arrangement of plastic chairs behind me. Above the scattering of half-slouched citizens in those chairs hangs a sign, “No Cellphones.” I step over a pair of legs in muddy Carhartts and work boots and another in fashionably torn jeans and new Uggs and take a seat. About 15 minutes later, or was it 45 minutes—Einstein has a special chapter about this part of the space-time continuum—I hear “Carlton.” I continue to sit, half-conscious, my back beginning to ache with the contour of the plastic. “Carlton,” I hear again, slightly louder this time. I spring awkwardly from my seat. The girl in the Uggs snorts indignantly as I disturb her texting again as I head for the counter.
***
The man behind the desk spins the notice in my direction. It just looks like a page full of small-print gibberish. “They need four drivers by next week. And they’re willing to train. Sounds like just what you need.” Ah, thank goodness he knows me so well. In fact, better than I know myself it appears, considering Jacob Carlton was only born three weeks ago this coming Thursday.
I take the sheet. “Actually, that’s my copy. Here’s yours.” He hands me a slightly easier to read version, in English, Spanish, and I guess Chinese, that seems to delineate my start date, time, and the address where I should show up. I say thanks half-heartedly. I don’t want to leave too much heart here–I’m not sure how much I have left.
I stop in for another grande before heading back to my apartment. I slurp in my only connection to reality. Past. Present. Future. All with a handy cardboard insulating sleeve.
***
Monday morning rolls around with its usual swiftness. Sporting the finest in new coveralls courtesy of the local Wal-Mart, I board the local and head south. The stop is four long blocks short of the plant, so I walk the rest of the way down the broken sidewalk lined with dead weeds, broken glass, wind-shredded plastic bags, and the occasional condom. Never could figure how those got there. Rather not know, I guess.
“Okay, uh, Carlton is it?” I nod.
“Gregorio here will show you the ropes on the forklifts. We don’t have the newest models, but they work fine and we haven’t had a problem … yet,” he eyes me with mild threat. “You’ll have to officially pass the OSHA safety test by the end of next week. We gotta keep those on file in case we get audited. After that, you’ll be on Greg’s team until you hear otherwise. Any questions? Complaints?”
What’s there to complain about? I haven’t even started. I was tempted to joke that way, but somehow the foreman doesn’t look like the joking type. At least, better to err on the safe side.
“Not me,” I say off-handedly, glancing over at Gregorio. His embroidered name barely fits above his left breast pocket, but I guess he is the type that doesn’t favor “Greg,” as his boss calls him. One of those bosses that keeps people down by using undesired nicknames.
The first day goes by without a hitch. I do have a college education after all, and an excellent driving record. I can’t imagine being able to mess up that much … unless I choose to, of course. At the end of the shift, several of guys get ready to head out for the local watering hole. Turns out to be actually a pretty good sports bar, which is okay with me. Not even having a TV, much less cable, in my new cell … I mean, apartment … has set me losing track of my favorite teams. Note to self: Contact apartment manager about getting cable hookup … and the address of the closest Best Buy.
We’re into our second pitcher when Alonzo calls to the barmen to change the channel to the finals. Soccer is his game. I still get a chuckle about how they have the nerve to call it ‘football.’ “You ever play?” he asks. “No. Well, back in high school.” Oops, gotta remember my legend. Let’s see, where did I go to school again? A quick wave of panic overwhelms the buzz in my belly, as I raise another glass. I hold my nose over the foam slightly longer that I usually would. Alonzo’s attention fades back to the screen, and he raises a fist in triumph over an admittedly fantastic kick past the goalie’s outstretched arms.
***
The night is over too soon. One of my new buddies drops me off at my apartment in his pickup, which reeks of tobacco. Having quit nearly 15 years earlier, I really hate the smell now. But I don’t say anything. Hey, nothing worse than an ex-smoker, they say.
A big shipment is arriving–hence the need for extra drivers–so the next week and a half are loaded with extra work and lots of pressure. Good money to pad out my pitiful Marshals Service-supplied seed money. Nights at the bar were becoming less frequent, as most of the guys had families to go home to. But when we do go, their devotion to their teams is always apparent. Favorites are fought over with great ferocity, nearly coming to blows at times. I have my strong preferences of course, but this level of intensity is new to me. Money’s thrown around freely and the pots are big and bold. These guys have something to prove. It’s exciting … and scary … which, I guess makes it even more exciting.
I guess I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Having a clean slate, I can create whatever reputation I please. I just have to act the part, and, voila, I am that guy. Nobody knows any better and no one can find out any better. Even if some techie type would Google me, I would simply not exist. Some guru at the bureau had wiped the internet clean too. Gotta give it to those guys. They were thorough. What more could a guy ask for, especially if he isn’t exactly proud of his past accomplishments.
***
“You’re late, Carlton,” the foreman yells as I come out of the locker room in my coveralls.
“Sorry, overslept,” I mumble as I grab my picking list from the clipboard rack. Darn, most of my picks are in the old, hot end of the warehouse. Oh, well, luck of the draw I guess. Then I wonder, does the boss have it in for me? I seem to be down there more often than most of the others. Maybe ’cause I’m the rookie.
“Hey, Carlton, 50 bucks says I can get my list done before you!” Esposito calls out as he climbs out of his forklift.
Is everything about betting with these guys? I guess it gives some color and excitement to their drab existence.
“You’re on,” I go along with it, mostly just to avoid conflict.
The morning does go a bit faster with the sense of competition surrounding it. I do, in fact, beat Esposito, and he forks over the cash grudgingly. The guys never did like losing bets. Who does? But the look in his eyes is darkly menacing. I’m no shrink, but I wonder what’s going on behind those steel-grey pupils.
***
My apartment’s starting to drive me nuts. It’s so empty. Does anyone really live here or could the landlord still slip his passkey in the door at any moment and waltz in with some prospective tenant on a viewing? Maybe it’s just my denial of the whole thing. I’m still going to wake up and I’ll be back at home. With my old name. My old job. My old life.
Grow up, “Mr. Carlton.” Yes, it’s Mr. Carlton now, nimnod! Your life ain’t your own anymore. Or, it is, but it’s not the one you’ve gotten used to. Hey, think about it. You coulda’ been dead! Those guys play for keeps, remember. But now you’re free. The U.S. Government has made you free! Get used to it. And, hey dummy, buy some drapes!
The next thing I know I’m on the bus to the local mall. Housewares. Electronics. Shoes. Party goods. Knick knacks. Jewelry and the latest fashions. Everything my heart could desire, off of one circular-square courtyard, with beautiful atmosphere music and a food court to spare! Two hours later, I’m back on the bus, every finger looped through the handle of shiny imprinted store bags of every shape, size, and color. Plus several items awaiting delivery. By 10 a.m tomorrow or your money back.
Making my place look like home takes a little work and, being a guy, I would hardly win any Better Homes and Gardens awards, but at least it finally looks like somebody lives here. I’m even tempted to brag to the guys about my decorating prowess the next morning but quickly think better of it, especially when the morning’s first breakroom activity is a crush-your-soda-can-against-your-forehead contest.
The first of the next month the bill comes due. The stipend is basically gone–too many beers with the boys, I guess–and I am up a creek. I really don’t want some collection agency sniffing around my newly minted identity and finding any suspicious gaps the feds have missed.
So, I beg the boss for some overtime. They’re just starting a second-level inventory for one of our customers so I luck out. But it’ll be a couple weeks before the extra cash starts to flow in, he informs me. In the meanwhile, I’ve gotten a call from the electronics store where I had gotten my big screen TV. The over-eager young associate that had waited on me had messed up my purchase and my credit check had indeed fallen through. They want the TV back by the end of the week if I don’t get them some cold hard cash.
The next day at work, I’m bewailing my sudden financial woes to my co-workers in the breakroom. Most of them reply with the typical work-hard-play-hard cracks which really don’t make much sense. But as I drain the last of my luke-warm coffee and head for the racks, Esposito stops me in the narrow, dim hallway, next to the time clock.
“Hey, Carlton, you really need some dough?” he asks, glancing around like some street-corner drug dealer.
“Uh, yeah, I got some OT coming in, but the boss says I won’t get the check before he gets the overrun disbursement from Keller Electronics for the extra hours.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re really hurting, I can help you out. You know, kinda tide you over, if you know what I mean.”
“So, you mean, lend me the money?”
“Yeah, you know. You’d have to make it worth my while, but I ain’t gonna gouge you like the guys downtown.”
“Yeah, hey, that’d be great. I mean, like, what would you be asking?”
“I usually do ten, but, hey, for you, six.”
“That sounds fair. Could you get me, like, uh, two grand?”
“No problem. Consider it done.”
The next morning he hands me an envelope after roll call and we are new best buds.
***
The days go by uneventfully, though by the end of two weeks I am getting pretty wrung out with 10 to 12-hour days. But it will definitely get me out of the hole I’ve dug, if it all works smoothly and as planned.
The inventory is finally complete and I’m back on regular shift. A week goes by. Then another. Then a third. I finally go into my boss’s office over the lunch hour and ask him about my check.
“Yeah, hey, about that. I’ve been bugging Keller for their overrun pay for two weeks straight and they’re giving me the runaround. I’m really getting pissed.”
“Oh, yeah, well, I guess there are people like that. Hope they don’t screw us over. Huh, especially ’cause I gotta note hanging on that extra check.”
“Yeah, tough when that happens, ain’t it?”
I kind of back out the door, hat in hand (if I’d worn a hat). My face is flushing and my blood pressure’s rising.
Esposito drives his lift up next to me as I walk the yellow-striped path towards my section. “So, did you get your check?”
“Uh, no. The boss is giving me some BS about Keller Electronics not paying their invoice.”
“Hey, look, Carlton, I ain’t runnin’ no charity here. You better be doing some creative thinking.”
“Sure, yeah, don’t worry. I’ll get you your money.”
“…if you know what’s good for you,” he stomped the pedal, swinging the fork within inches of my ankle as he headed back down the aisle.
Three more days go by and still no check. Esposito glares at me every time we pass. I’m really getting tired of his ugly face. And it is ugly. Greasy hair. Broken nose. One eyelid that drooped slightly. A real male-model type.
***
Another Friday comes around and still no extra check. The check I do get goes directly to my landlord. In fact, I even have to short her, which puts me on another person’s hit list.
I don’t even have enough for bus fare anymore so I’m walking home from the warehouse each night. Thankfully the sun was barely setting when my shift is over.
Tonight the weather’s mild. I’m almost enjoying the walk. My mind wanders. Scenes of my past life resurface in my memory, as they had been spontaneously doing the last few weeks.
I’m going under a viaduct beneath some tracks that run about half-mile from my apartment when I hear the rumbling sound of a heavy sedan approaching from the rear. As it rolls past, I recognize it as Esposito’s bright red old Caddy. My blood runs cold as his brake lights flash and he rolls to a stop about 50 feet ahead of me. Then, my gut clenches as the backup lights blink on and the car accelerates in reverse back towards me, veering this way and that as it approaches, but definitely on target to intersect my path.
I think of bolting but really have nowhere to run. The chilling realization then hits me. Esposito lived the other direction. So, to get here, he has actually followed me from work—he really was a psycho. He pulls up beside me and jumps from the car barely after his back-up lights go out. He’s next to me, the stench of beer and cigarettes filling the otherwise fresh desert air.
I back away, telegraphing my fear. He advances, a sneer on his face. This was no social call.
“Alright, Carlton, I’ve had enough of your excuses! Where’s my money?!”
“I … I … don’t have it. That boss of ours is being a real …”
“I don’t care about ‘that boss of ours’…” he mocks me.
“I’ve written to a family member to advance me some …”
“When I said ‘creative thinking’ I didn’t mean creative lying!”
“I … I’m telling the truth!”
He pushes further towards me, I’m cornered against a crumbling concrete abutment, skillfully illustrated with local gang colors. It was then I hear it. The telltale click of a blade. I look down in time to see what must have been an eight-inch switch knife in his hand.
“Esposito, this isn’t necessary!” The look in his eyes has gone cold. Beyond reason. My hands flail forward helplessly, half pleading, half shielding my gut.
And then I feel it, the strange puncturing sensation, followed at first with breathlessness, then searing pain. Then a strange mixed feeling of heat and cold spreads quickly through my abdomen. I try to brace my knees but my head goes light and dizzy. I wanna puke. My eyes swim in the evening light, the colors of the sunset smear and swirl together. My back slides downward, scratching painfully against the chipped, sharp-edged concrete wall behind me.
I bend and slump lifelessly to the ground, the side of my face landing in a pile of gravel and cigarette butts. A beer-bottle cap digs into the side of my eye socket. I feel the man rifling my pockets for the last of my cash. My last sight on God’s green earth is looking up at those huge steel girders … er … pillars … whatever you call them, you know, that hold up the railroad tracks. Someone had stuck a Starbucks cup in the spaces between the crisscrossed iron bars, held together with those big round-head rivets.
“And God spake all these words, saying, I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” — Exodus 20:2–3
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