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The Price of Life

Amanda Berthault

    I wonder what it will feel like when I shove the knife into T.J. Price’s chest. Will it be hard and crunchy as I bust through his ribs? Or will it go smooth like slicing through cookie dough? I wish I knew. But I suppose the surprise of it will make the deed more exciting.
    It’s damn cold out here. It’s like, January and all I’m wearing is a hoodie over a t-shirt, and baggy army pants. I love these pants. They belonged to my brother Garrett. I was real young, probably four, when he killed an armored car driver and ran off with like a shitload of dough. Didn’t get real far. Cops shot him dead in the fucking street. But what I really remember is what he told me as he sat on his bed, wearing these army pants and loading his .22 right in front of me. He was like, “Little dude, when you grow up, remember that in life it’s every man for himself. Survival of the fittest. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, no matter what the consequences.”
    He was seventeen when he blew the guy’s head off and the cops killed him. When Garrett’s clothes were returned to us, I kept the pants for when I was big enough to wear them. Something to remember him by. Something to give me courage when I would follow in his footsteps.
    Even though it’s not pouring rain, the tiny droplets of drizzle are pelting me as if the harsh wind wants to shoot me down. If there’s a God, maybe he knows what I’m gonna do. Too bad, man. Try and stop me.
    I’m standing on this ledge that has this big flowerpot on it. Totally doesn’t fit with the shithole concert venue it stands in front of in the shithole neighborhood, but maybe it does since it’s filled with old dirt and remnants of past floral inhabitants. Death in a pot. Sweet.
    Since I’m freezing my ass off, I think I’ll walk over to the other side of the bus that T.J. Price is sitting in all warm and dry and full of himself. Maybe the bus will block the wind. I walk around the back, looking for anyone watching, but no one is around. Just some bums shaking their cups of change. I look up into the back window of the bus, the shade pulled up, and there’s a dude playing Grand Theft Auto on a TV hanging from the ceiling. That game is so badass, you can kill people and crash stolen cars, and when the cops catch ya, you can just start all over again.
    I can tell it’s not T.J. Price playing it. The silhouette is bald and has a pointy nose. Price has long hair and a goatee. That bastard always gets the women, seriously, they always drool over him. It’s sick. Anyway, I snuck into the concert down in Chicago last night, since there’s no way in hell I’ll pay to see that bastard and his ‘back up band’ perform. I say back up because I’m sure he treats them like they’re nothing, seeing as he’s the one stealing all the attention. Yeah sure, he’s got pipes like no other human on earth, but it’s the way he dances all around on stage, banging his head, showing off how great he can sing, smiling at all the girls with that grin that says ‘Yeah I’m sexy, keep staring at my big dick,’ and he unbuttons his shirt slowly throughout the show as he’s all sweaty and gross. Fucking bastard.
    I drove all the way up here to Milwaukee because I knew it would be easier to kill him here. I’ve mentioned what a shithole place this is, and after all, the old apartment of a serial killer is down the street. As I was leaving home, I told my mom that I might not be coming back – ever. She said okay. After my dad was killed during a drug deal by undercover cops and Garrett was killed by cops, she stopped giving a shit about anything. It’s alright by me, since I could drop out of high school and have full access to her extensive alcohol and weed stash.
    I have nothing to lose, no matter what happens tonight.
    The bus blocks the wind a little, but I can’t help shivering and wishing I had worn a jacket over my hoodie. There’s a little ledge where I can sit with my back to the bus and my legs dangling into the side parking lot. I wait.
    Waiting is the hardest part. More than once I think about getting up and banging on the bus door so I can storm in and take care of business, but instead I shift position on the ledge so I can see the bus door. I just realized that the big window on the side of the bus has the shade up and I can see clearly inside. There he is, T.J. Price, grinning that stupid grin as he talks to someone I can’t see. All I can hope for is that he comes out - alone. I want it to be just him and me. This is our business.
    T.J.’s band isn’t real well known, no matter how many people worship him. I mean, he’s not like Justin Timberlake or someone like that. He’s metal, or at least he thinks he is, so his band is considered ‘big’ in this genre, I guess. But not so big that the band members don’t sometimes hang around their official online chat room. Total nerds those fans are, man. I only went once. Okay maybe twice...or three times...aw fuck it. I’m not a nerd though, so don’t even think it. Anyway, my bro had this old computer he stole from like a mom and pop electronics store or something and did some sneaky wiring to snag some free Internet – something he was real good at doing. Besides shooting things. Needless to say, he taught me everything, so that’s how I got cable for my mom too, she likes to sit and watch sappy movies and get drunk. Anyway, back when I actually respected T.J. and his guys, I decided to check out what the nerdy fans were up to. I went by the name of DragonFlame because dragons are badass and fire is even more badass. I’ll never forget the time I happened to be around when the man himself decided to come for a chat.
    “Hey, hey!” he said when he came in. Everyone greeted him as if God himself had just appeared, and I’ll admit, I was pretty damn excited to see him. T.J. Price wanted to hang with his fans. How cool is that? I mean, the dude is seriously a killer singer. And no, I never kissed the ground he walked on like all the others do. Anyway, I let everyone drool over him for a while before deciding to send him a private message. That way my words wouldn’t get lost in the mess of adoration. It went a little something like this:

     hi TJ
     hey
     how’s it going
     great
     you sound really great on the new album
     killer vocals man
     yeah thanx
     can I ask you something
     ok
     I’d really like to be a singer someday just like you
     can’t afford lessons or nothing so maybe you can give me some tips
     you know I figure it’s better to learn a few things from someone like you

    The pause was too long. The droolfest in the main room was looking pretty overwhelming for T.J., so I hoped he’d see that at least one of his fans was actually sane.

     people always ask me that
     I WANNA SING LIKE YOU TJ TEACH ME
     what the hell am I supposed to tell people??
     I’m the only one who can sing like me
     I’m tired of making up shit to answer that question every night on tour

    I stared at the screen. It wasn’t like I had asked for a full-blown lesson. I’m the only one who can sing like me. What a crock.

     dude that’s cold
     you come in here to supposedly chat with your fans but instead you bite my head off and soak in everyone bowing down to you
     you’re bowing down too so you shouldn’t be talking
     like hell
     I just asked you a simple question
     you say no one sings like you but I think that’s because you don’t let anyone sing like you
     exactly. You’re a genius
     you’re a dick Price
     consider yourself one fan short, and one day you’ll be sorry you treated me like shit

    I left the chat room without waiting for a response.
    The bus door opening just scared the crap out of me, and I grip the knife that I got hidden in the front pocket of my hoodie. But it’s just Dan, the guitarist, walking towards me with a bag over his shoulder. If he tells me to take a hike, maybe I’ll kill him too.
    “What are you doing out here in the cold?” he asks. He doesn’t even have a coat on at all, so he’s already shivering. I realize that my whole body is vibrating like mad.
    “I’m...uh...waiting for T.J. I want to meet him.”
    Now the rest of the band is exiting the bus and walking inside! I’m gonna miss my chance. I stand up, watching T.J. proudly stride up the ramp with his arm around the shoulders of a chick. I grip the knife again.
    “Did you drive here? Is there a place you can go to keep warm for a while?”
    “Uh...no. I...took the bus.” It’s a lie, but I did park far away so my car won’t be identified right away. “Can I please meet T.J. and the others? I won’t be in the way, I just want to shake their hands.”
    Dan smiles. “Yeah, I guess you can come on in with me. You’ll get real sick being out here waiting for doors to open, which won’t be for like...” he looks at his watch, “two hours.” He sticks out his hand and I release the knife in my pocket to shake. “What’s your name?”
    “Greg.” Crap, I should have come up with a fake name.
    “Nice to meet you, Greg. Follow me. Maybe we can get you something hot to drink.”
    Wow. This dude is really cool. He is the example all musicians should follow. I wish he didn’t have to see what I was going to do to his band mate. Or maybe he won’t give a damn since I’m sure he knows what an ass T.J. Price is.
    He takes me into the side door that leads into a dim room with a few couches that look like a blast from the past. There are some of those big black boxes that bands use to pack their gear stacked in various corners. On one side of the room is what I think is a bathroom that’s probably never been cleaned, and the other side has the door that leads to the stage. My stomach growls at the pizzas on a table against the wall.
    Dan tells me to help myself, and soon returns with some hot chocolate from somewhere else in the building. “I know chocolate and pizza is a weird combo, but it’s all they got around here.”
    The drink is pretty bland, but anything hot right now is perfect. “Thanks dude, this is really cool of you.”
    “No problem.”
    Two other band members are chowing down on pizza along with some other women, and guys that I figure are roadies. No T.J. though. He’s probably off somewhere having it with his chick. Better be good because it’ll be his last time.
    Now that we finished eating, I’m meeting the others in the band. They shake my hand and tell me it’s cool if I hang here until doors open to the ticket holders. Dan says, “Dunno where T.J. went off to. Probably the bar.”
    “I’m gonna see if they have some water at the bar,” I say. “Hot chocolate doesn’t exactly quench my thirst.”
    I walk out the door that leads out into the venue and past the few steps that go up to the stage. The bar is in the back, and sure enough, there’s T.J. Price chatting with his woman. He’s wearing a long sleeve black shirt, black leather pants, and a black beanie on his head. I grip my knife as I approach. Do I just stab him through his spine, or do I talk to him and make sure he knows why he’s going to die?
    I ask the bartender for some water, and I stand at the bar about a foot away from my victim. He’s stopped talking to the hot chick to take a drink of his beer, so I’ll say something.
    “T.J. Price, right?” I look up at him, as I only come up to his shoulder. He could probably kick my ass.
    “Yeah,” he says. “Did you sneak in or something?”
    “No.” I think I sounded snippy, but I’m nervous, I’m pissed. “Dan let me in.”
    “Alright dude, I was just joking.” He smiles a little before taking another sip.
    I’m gripping the knife so hard my hand hurts. I want so bad to just whip it out and slice right through his heart, but I can’t, he’s not facing me. The chick murmurs something about getting some food, and T.J. declines to join her. Now it’s just him and me. Even the bartender has disappeared.
    “Do you remember a few weeks ago when you came into your band’s chat room?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
    “Yeah,” he says.
    “Do you remember someone sending you a private message, asking for some tips on how to be a better singer? Do you remember how you told him off with your badass attitude? That person was me.”
    Now he’s facing me. He raises one eyebrow, his beer bottle an inch from his chin. “Yeah,” he says, just as quietly as I had spoke. “I remember that.”
    “You remember how I said that one day you’d be sorry you acted like a dick? That time is now.”
    Just as the muscles in my right arm tense to pull the knife out and bust through his chest, the loud blast of guitar and drums sends my heart up and almost through my throat. T.J. moves toward the stage. “Gotta do sound check kid. We can talk later.”
    Run. Run and stab him in the back. Stab him so many times that the doctors will lose count when examining his corpse. Watch him bleed all over, in front of everyone, who cares if I get caught. It will be done.
    But I’m standing here, frozen as if my feet are stuck in concrete, just watching him walk away. Taking a deep breath, I finally bring the knife out, close to my body and take fast strides towards him, but he makes it to the stage, grabs the mike, and belts out a song with the band. Goddamnit.
    I go backstage and plop myself onto one of the nasty couches, replacing the knife in my hoodie pocket, and now I stare at the wall. Garrett’s probably watching me, here in spirit or something, laughing his ass off because I hesitated. “Little dude,” he’d say, “don’t be a pussy. Rid the world of another pompous ass. Do what you gotta do, man.”
    Garrett knew all about not being a pussy. He wanted to join the army, serve his country, give our mom something to be proud of. But he failed the test three times since he dropped out of school and didn’t know anything except video games and how to clean and shoot his .22. The government didn’t much like his criminal record either, so Garrett decided to use his weapon knowledge in a different way. He lost his goal, and I will lose mine too, I just know it. I can never be as good as T.J., he said so himself. No one can sing like him. But you know what? I’m gonna make sure no one ever has him as competition. Even if I have to practice singing in a jail cell.
    Sound check is finally done. They all come back to the room, talking loudly about their songs, about how small the stage is, about how lame it is that they can’t play on the big stage, about how cool it is to have their girlfriends there. The four women are getting as many glances as possible at T.J.’s leather-covered ass when the other guys aren’t looking. Jesus, these women need buckets to catch their drool...
    T.J. decides he’s suddenly hungry and wants a sandwich since all the pizza is gone. “I’ll walk over to the convenient store across the street,” he says. “Be back in a few.”
    Barely a minute passes before I sneak out the door behind him. The cold air bites me hard as if it remembers me and wants to make sure I don’t get away again. T.J. is at the bottom of the ramp, and I remain at least 20 feet behind him past the bums at the bus stop, across the street and into the store.
    It’s really bright in here, but nice and warm. Is this a good place to kill him? It would be so much better outside where I can leave his body out in the cold then make a run for it, but hey, there’s only two or three people here plus the cashier. Nothing can interrupt me here.
    T.J. is standing at the cooler in a back corner of the store that holds the variety of sandwiches, picking up one, putting it down, then picking up another. I walk around all the shelves to the back where the soda and juice coolers line the walls. I stare into the center of his back and bring the knife out again, this time without hesitation. Step by careful step I make my way down this last aisle towards him. I’m five steps away. I bring my arm back with all the strength I can muster from everywhere in my body.
    A gunshot. The three other customers scream and dive to the tile floor. The cashier is slumped over on the floor behind the counter as a masked man empties the cash register. I’m frozen again.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see T.J. clutching the sandwich cooler and staring at me. I realize that I still have the knife raised above my shoulder, pointed in his direction. He looks from me to my weapon, and back again. I hear the cha-ching of the cash register closing. Where did the fucking robber guy go?
    Another gunshot. The glass of one soda cooler door shatters just as I’m tackled to the ground. I squeeze my eyes shut, I have no idea what the hell this robber is gonna do to me since I have a weapon too. Wait. My knife. I dropped it. He’s on top of me, and I’m doomed.
    There are more gunshots, but they’re towards the front of the store. Is it the cops? Some woman is screaming loud enough to shatter the damn windows, but a bullet shuts her up. Wait. If the madman is still up there, then who the fuck...?
    I open my eyes to see T.J. hovering over me and breathing hard like a watchdog. There are beads of sweat forming on his face and his eyes are wide, staring down the aisle. I hear the clicking of a gun reloading, a sound I know all too well. T.J. continues to stare.
    “Where’s the weapon?” I hear. The robber is at the end of the aisle, the direction I came from. I look on the floor around me but can’t find it. T.J.’s eyes are now on me. Why is he looking at me like that? It’s like...he’s sad or something. This is more of a time to be shitting your pants in fear, not sad.
    There it is! The knife is behind T.J. The guy is demanding we send it his way or our heads will be splattered all over the nice white linoleum.
    “It’s behind you,” I whisper to T.J. “Let me get it.”
    “No.” He creeps off of me and picks up the knife. “Stay there,” he says to me. He holds up his free arm as if expecting me to attack.
    I’m sitting here in the middle of the aisle, a freak with a gun behind me, and a freaked out man with a knife in front of me. This whole plan is going real good.
    “Give me the damn knife!” the masked man yells. But T.J. keeps looking at me, then at the guy, then the knife, then me again. What the hell dude? Do you want him to kill us?
    Holy shit! He’s pounced and now he’s got my arm and is pulling me towards the door. I can’t even stand up. He’s pulling so hard and fast. I’m a fucking human mop. The cans of soup and fruit on the shelves are exploding. Bam bam bam. The bullets are following us. T.J.’s almost at the door.
    Bam.
    Blood. Man, it’s totally spilling out of his left side! All over his hands, the floor, the door. Whoa, another shot just missed his head! Now T.J. is half out on the sidewalk, the shards of the glass door spread out beneath him. I totally fall right on top of him and my hands are all sliced up from the glass. And after all this, T.J.’s still got the knife in a death grip.
    I pry it from his bloody fingers and don’t think twice. This knife was meant to kill, and kill it shall.
    Right in the chest, and it’s hard like really stale bread. My victim hits the floor, the gun sliding towards the back of the store. Out and in, out and in, over and over. I can’t believe the blood, this is absolutely insane. Fucking unbelievable. My arm is tired and the guy is beyond dead. I drop the knife and stare. I wanted a corpse. I got one.
    I crawl back towards T.J., who is still writhing slowly on the ground. I’m smearing the dead guy’s blood as I crawl, like a trail of death. The glass shards don’t even matter now; my hands and knees are so bloody, what’s a little more? He’s staring at me again, but no sadness now. If I know anything about expressions, I’d say he’s relieved. I didn’t kill him. The robber didn’t kill him.
    But most importantly, I didn’t kill him.
    The cops are here. I tell them what happened. I came to Milwaukee to see T.J. and his band. I hung out with them. Followed him to the store. Guy robs it. Kills people. Shoots T.J. I kill the robber. They wanna know where the knife came from, but before I could tell them, the paramedics start putting T.J. in the ambulance. I hear him yell, “Wait!”
    I look in his direction and he points to me. “That kid...he...”
    Was gonna kill me? Go ahead man. Say it. It’s the Goddamned truth.
    “...he saved my life. Go easy on him.”
    Holy shit. I think my jaw just hit the concrete.
    They lift him into the ambulance. “Sing kid!” he calls out. “Just sing, that’s all you gotta do.”
    They close the doors and speed away. Now I’m sitting in the back of the cop car, singing a little tune I’ve practiced endlessly - written by the one and only T.J. Price.

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