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Instant Karma
John Capraro
“Hey, old man,” Tommy said, as he and his friend Ryan cornered an old drunk in a side alley. “I said give me your money.”
“I told you this is the perfect spot for targets,” Ryan said, sniggering.
The drunkard stumbled trying to get away. “Why don’t you jesh frick off.”
“I think he’s tryin’ to be tough, Tommy.” Ryan gave the old man a shove.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
Tommy punched the man right in the face. As a stocky 16-year-old, Tommy Munro had good upper body strength, but he was still surprised at how easily the drunkard fell. Even as the old man’s frail body collapsed against the ivy-covered fence in the alley, Tommy lunged at him again. “I thought I told you to give us your money.”
The man tried to get up from the broken glass he’d fallen onto, wiping blood from his cut lip. “One of these days you’ll get wuz comin’ to you.”
“What?” Tommy grabbed the man by his shirt and shoved him back down to the ground. “You threatening me, old man?” Tommy hit the man, enjoying the feel of the collision between his fist and the man’s face. “Is that what you’re doing?” He hit him again. And again.
“Geez, Tommy.” Ryan backed away. “He don’t have no money. He’s just a drunk. Let’s leave him alone and go, man. Someone might see us.”
Wiping a lock of dark brown hair from his face, Tommy looked with satisfaction at the old man crumpled on the ground, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Yeah, let’s go. Crazy old man.” He glanced at his watch. “My mom’s gonna be home in a few anyway.”
The two teens strode out of the alley, past the gas station next to it, then on down Marlin Street. The sky above reddened as the sun began its descent for the evening, and the fluorescence of a few damaged store signs joined forces with lights in the windows of nearby dilapidated homes to usurp the fading sunlight.
Shaking his head, Ryan said, “Man, I can’t believe you hit that dude so much.” A crazy smile crossed his face. “You messed him up.”
“He was a loser, like my old man.”
Ryan nodded. “At least your old man’s not around to bug you any more.”
Tommy said nothing.
The two boys walked past the small one-story Spruce Medical Hospital on Marlin and Hope Streets. Tommy glanced at the facility as they passed. He couldn’t believe they called the decrepit building a medical hospital, like it was some immaculate place where nuns and angels worked. He shook his head. But the hospital blended in with this town, since most of the inner streets were just as rundown.
“This place sucks.” Tommy spit on the sidewalk.
“You got that right.”
At the corner of Marlin and Cooper Avenue, the boys split up.
“Catch you later, man,” Ryan said, heading off east down Cooper.
“Yeah.” Tommy turned west.
As he approached the sickly reddish-brown building that housed the apartment he and his mom shared, Tommy crinkled his nose. Inside, the place smelled like sulfur and body waste—every bit as bad as the outside looked, with its peeling paint, broken windows and gang graffiti. With a sigh he went into the main hallway and up the creaky stairs that led to the second floor. As he arrived at his apartment door, the elderly woman who lived across the hall poked her head out of her doorway.
“Wait, Tommy.”
The wrinkled face that surrounded her eyes reminded Tommy of a sour grape left in the sun too long. “Hi, Mrs. Sharps.” He forced a smile as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He didn’t mind the old woman so much, except that she had a tendency to get righteous every now and again.
“Your ma might be in a snit.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow.
“The police was here.”
As Tommy watched her come out of her doorway and into the hall, he had a feeling this was going to be one of those righteous moments.
“You ought to be careful, young man,” Mrs. Sharps said, wagging a crooked forefinger at him. “You’ll reap what you sow, mark my words.”
An insincere “Thanks” is all Tommy offered as he opened the apartment door and walked in. Under his breath he added, “Crazy old woman.”
As Tommy got into the living room his mom entered from the tiny adjacent kitchen. That was another thing he didn’t like: The apartment was so small his mom could get from the kitchen to the living room in just three steps. How many times had this scenario been played out? Best to play it cool. He zipped his mouth as he unzipped his jacket.
“Where were you all afternoon?” Mrs. Munro asked, her eyes fixed on him.
Tommy shrugged, aloof. “Just out with the guys.” He took off his black windbreaker and tossed it on a nearby chair.
“Every time you’re out with the guys, I get a call from the police. What did you do to the Brudecker boy yesterday?”
Tommy tossed his head to the side. “We didn’t do anything to him. We were just goofing around.”
“I hardly call a black eye just goofing around. Most people don’t call the police for just goofing around.”
“All right, Mom,” Tommy said, throwing his hands into the air. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. OK?”
He tried to head for his room, but his mother stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. His mom could be stern, but her motherly gaze had a way of leashing the usually uncontrollable demons inside him. He had a difficult time being angry around her.
“Seriously, Tommy,” she said, brushing his hair back with her hand, “I can’t be worrying about you all the time. You have to straighten up or your behavior’s going to catch up with you one day.” She picked up an overshirt from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders, shivering. “You know how hard it is for us.”
Tommy grimaced. “Hard” was an understatement, just a four-letter word with no balls. Ever since his dad had walked out on them three years ago, their life had become an apartment-sized hell. He’d only been 13 at the time, but the memory of that day still burned in his mind.
He lowered his head, thoughtful, then looked directly into his mother’s soulful brown eyes. “We won’t mess with him again.”
Mrs. Munro put a hand to her head and leaned on the back of the couch, a small grunt escaping her lips. Tommy eyed her, concerned. She looked tired, and lately she seemed out of sorts, fatigued.
“You all right, Mom?”
Mrs. Munro looked up. “Oh,” she began, waving her hand as though to dismiss the question, “I’ve just been feeling a little weak of late, that’s all.” After a sigh she added, “I’m going back into work for a few hours tonight.”
“You just got home from work,” Tommy protested, putting a hand on her arm. “Why do you have to go in again? You’ve been working too much.”
She gave him a weak smile. “We need the money.” She patted his hand. “I want you to stay home tonight, OK?”
Tommy nodded, then gave her a peck on the cheek. “Please don’t overdo it. You’re all I’ve got.”
Mrs. Munro’s face brightened.
For an hour after his mom had left for work, Tommy watched television from the living room couch. Bored, he flipped through the channels with the remote. Nothing on TV interested him and his mind wandered back to his mother. She seemed to be getting more drained by the day. Why had his dad left them in a mess like this? It was his dad’s fault his mom had to work so hard. Who did that bastard think he was anyway? If anything ever happened to his mom.... Well, you can run but you can’t hide.
“This is crap.”
He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote onto the couch. Grabbing his windbreaker, he headed out of the two-bedroom apartment.
The night air was stagnant and dark clouds selfishly tried to hide the starry sky above. Occasionally, the moon would force its pale glow through the cloud cover. Tommy headed down Cooper Avenue hoping to run into Ryan, but at the corner of Cooper and Marlin, he plopped down onto the curb.
Great, where the hell is he?
Alone under the indifferent gleam of a rusted street lamp, Tommy exhaled loudly, as if to let the world know he was miserable. He was stuck in a filthy little town, where he and his mom had been left by an uncaring drunk without even a place to live. The only reason they’d been able to survive at all was because his mom worked herself half way to ruination every day. This was not how he’d pictured his life playing out.
He spit at a passing car. How he wished he could forget that day three years ago, the day his life changed forever. Sure, there’d been problems in the Munro house for a while—too much arguing, not enough talking. Or perhaps just too much of an alcohol-fueled father. It seemed to Tommy then that, at the age of 13, he’d heard more than his fair share of yelling and screaming. He’d grown to believe it was natural; unpleasant, but not the end of the world. He’d been coping, that is until he got home from school that day. Inside he found his mom sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, crying.
“What’s wrong?”
His mother’s words stunned him: “Your father’s gone; he left us. He won’t be back.” Her words were hollow, emotionless and yet, with a note of despair.
She deserved better than that.
Now, three years later as Tommy sat on that lonely street corner, that day still invaded his memory. He contorted his face into a scowl and gnashed his teeth, as adrenaline burned through his veins. Jumping up he gave voice to his anger with a visceral scream, which echoed through the empty streets until it was swallowed by the darkness.
Tommy continued on, the oppressive humidity causing salty droplets to form on his forehead, which trickled down into his eyes, burning them. His mouth was dry by the time he reached the gas station on Marlin. Inside, he’d grabbed a pop and taken it all the way to the counter before realizing he hadn’t brought any money.
“Damn.” He glanced at the unsympathetic man behind the counter.
A car pulled up to the pumps outside. The car caught his eye, a shiny Beemer. Setting the pop down, he stepped outside.
The man who owned the car was busy pumping gas and didn’t seem to notice him as he approached. Tommy studied the man’s face—the prominent jaw line and gimlet eyes, features similar to those of his father. With a head of graying hair, the man looked to be about the same age Tommy’s dad would be now, and the anger began to grow. The man even seemed to have the same “I’m superior” demeanor that infuriated Tommy.
After pumping his gas, the man walked over to the alley at the corner of the building to throw some trash into one of the garbage cans there. Tommy followed, a shrewd grin stretching across his face. The perfect spot for targets.
“Hey, man,” Tommy called out as the man was replacing the lid on one of the metal trash cans. “I don’t think you can put your trash in there.”
“No?”
Tommy got closer. “Hey, can you give me some money?”
The gentleman frowned. “No, I cannot.”
An odor of rotted fish and stale cigarette butts forced its way into Tommy’s nostrils. When the man tried to leave the alley to get back to his car, Tommy stood in his way. “Come on, man, give me some money.”
The man’s eyebrows pinched downward as he regarded Tommy. “How old are you, young man?”
Young man? His dad used to say that to him.
“Why are you out on the streets this late?” the man continued. “And harassing people? You know, what goes around comes around, young man, and if you’re not careful...”
Tommy stared, one eyebrow raised. The guy wouldn’t shut up. Who the hell did this guy think he was anyway? Jerry Falwell?
The man went on when Tommy didn’t respond. “If I were your father, I’d...”
Hot blood raced to Tommy’s face, his teeth clenched and his lip curled up into a snarl. Without warning his fist swung around and struck the man in the face, knocking him into the garbage cans, the metal lids clanging on the ground in cacophony.
“If you were my father, what, man?” Tommy stood over the dazed man. “You think you’re special? Huh?” Tommy hit the man again and again, rage pouring from the darkened depths of his wounded heart. “You want to treat me like that again? Like when I was thirteen? Huh?”
Bleeding from several facial wounds, the man held up his arm in self defense. “Get away from me!”
“I’ll get away from you.” Tommy struck the man in the face and head yet again. It was no longer a stranger on the ground, it was his father. “You left us with nothing before. Now give me your money!”
Tommy held the man down as he rifled through his pockets, finally yanking the man’s wallet out. “Yeah.” He grinned as he scoffed, “What goes around comes around.”
“Give that back,” the man demanded, wrapping his hands around Tommy’s throat. “You little punk.”
Tommy grabbed a metal trash can lid from the ground and smacked it over the man’s head several times, until the man finally let go of him. The man slumped to the ground, moaning, a crimson pool forming by his head.
“Crazy old man!” Tommy yelled, spitting.
He opened the wallet and took out the cash, then found the man’s license. “Robert Morrison,” he said aloud. “You’re no one special.” Tommy pulled out another ID card. “Oh, M-D, eh?” His voice seethed with mocking contempt. “Well then, what’s up, Doc?”
Morrison only groaned.
“Hey, what’s going on back there?” came a voice from the front of the gas station.
Tommy shoved the wallet into one of his jacket pockets and bolted down the dark alley. By the time he made it back to the apartment building, it was late. His mom would be home, so he hesitated in the foyer and looked himself over. He was a dirty mess.
She’ll be in bed by now, Tommy thought, working out in his mind how to sneak in. Once on the second floor, though, Tommy was met by Mrs. Sharps.
“Where you been, boy? They was looking for you an hour ago.”
“Who was looking?”
Mrs. Sharps urgently grabbed Tommy by the arm, her eyes alight with distress. “You got to get to the hospital, Tommy. They took your ma there an hour ago. She collapsed on the floor right here. Her head—”
“What!” Tommy’s hands jerked forward as if to fend off the alarming news. “My mom?”
“They took her to Spruce. Go, Tommy. It don’t look good. Go!”
Tommy was out of the building and onto the street in less than a minute, sprinting toward the decrepit little hospital he’d verbally spit on just hours before. What had happened to his mom? How bad was it? His chest burned for air, as fear grabbed his eyelids and pried them apart. Once inside the emergency area of Spruce Medical, he headed straight for the nurse’s desk.
“Where is she?” he pleaded to the nurse behind the counter. He struggled to force words out through heaving breaths. “My mom... Mrs. Munro... Where is she?”
The nurse put up her hand. “OK, slow down.”
“Mrs. Munro, my mom. Please, where is she? How is she?”
“Calm down, let me look.”
As the nurse checked a clipboard, Tommy spun around, frantically looking for his mom, wiping sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand.
The nurse called and Tommy looked back at her. “Your mom is in a treatment room. She had a stroke. You’re her son?”
“Stroke?” The word struck him like a hammer in the gut, and he wobbled as his knees nearly gave out. His voice became feeble, timid. “How...”
“She’s being taken care of.” The nurse sounded reassuring, but Tommy could tell by the concern on her face it was a serious matter. “Please have a seat there,” she directed.
Tommy twisted around again, searching desperately for his mom.
“Young man, please have a seat...”
The intercom overhead crackled: “Paging Doctor Morrison. Doctor Morrison, please report to Emergency.”
Tommy stared at the people around him in the emergency room lobby, his anguish starving him of air. Where was his mom? Was she dying? He felt as though a vacuum cleaner were running inside his brain, sucking out any sense of reality, the sounds around him barely audible above the roaring rush in his ears.
“Paging Doctor Morrison...”
Tommy glanced up at the intercom speaker, squinting, then turned back to the nurse at the desk, who was now in a discussion with another nurse.
“Please,” he began.
The nurses didn’t hear him. They seemed anxious about something and though they spoke in hushed tones, Tommy could hear every word.
“Well, where is he?” asked the second nurse, a tall woman with dark hair.
“We don’t know,” said the nurse at the desk. “We’ve been paging him but he hasn’t replied. His shift started an hour ago.”
Tommy stared at the women as if in a stupor, as a man in a lab coat approached them.
“Doctor Malcolm,” the tall nurse began, “the woman in five-A—”
“Ladies,” the doctor said, “I suggest we contact Saint Prudence to see if they have an available neurosurgeon they can send us.”
“Saint Prudence is ten miles away,” the tall nurse said. “That woman in there needs help now. She won’t make it that long. We need Doctor Morrison.”
“What woman?” Tommy interrupted. “Where’s the doctor? Where’s my mom?” Burning tears streamed down his face.
“Paging Doctor Morrison.”
Tommy froze. The blood drained from his face as he snatched the stolen wallet out of his jacket pocket. The hospital ID card was still there.
“Morrison,” he said, the name spilling out of his mouth as though part of a dying breath.
