This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of Down in the Dirt magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
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What’s this you’re trying to hand me? A Bible? The Koran? Something more exotic, perhaps from the Far East? A self-help book offering hopeful answers to absurd questions? (Or is it the other way around?) If it weren’t for the vacant look in your glazed eyes, I would walk on, leaving you to arrogantly push your sect, cult or whatever upon other passerby. But, my intrusive friend, your confidence intrigues me. Or annoys me. In either case, I’m now going to waste your time as willingly as you attempted to waste mine.
I’ve always been a thief of some sort, starting with the time I lifted Todd Glassman’s G.I. Joe tank back in the third grade. Well, I’m sure I picked my mom’s purse before then, but you get the idea. By the time I turned twenty, I was quite a jack-of-wicked-trades.
I always worked alone. I prefer it that way. The only one you need to trust is yourself and the only rules you have to follow are your own. Sure, I had offers to partner up or join a crew, and I admit they gave me a boost of self-confidence, but I always declined as politely as I could.
But I fell into a slump and times got tight, which sometimes happens. The simplest con goes wrong, the cash registers are nearly dry, the guy you try to mug is worse off than you are. These things happen, and sometimes in a row. I was in danger of going broke.
Finally, I got wind of a local jewelry store with a weak security system. My fortunes were changing. When I got to the place, however, I found three tough guys who apparently wanted the same thing I did. We all stood outside in a drizzle at 3 a.m. trying to figure out what to do. The simplest solution, we quickly decided, was to do the job together.
Afterwards, they drove me to their headquarters to divvy up the take and to meet their boss. I nearly laughed when they told me his name: Trident. They warned me that there was nothing funny about him, that he was a man who would eat you alive if it would be good for business. I wasn’t worried. We drove the rest of the way in silence.
Trident’s office was located in a pretty posh complex. I’m not sure what he told the neighbors, or the landlord for that matter, but it was clear that nothing official or very legal ever happened there. When I walked into the room littered with miscreants and sinners, I could immediately identify which one was Trident. He was the large man, muscles tight against his teal suit, sitting behind an oak desk counting a massive pile of money. His formidable hands dwarfed the cash he was holding. He didn’t look up, but I caught a ghastly glimpse of his cold eyes, eyes that had never known mercy. More disturbing to me, however, was the unconditional admiration everyone else in the room was giving him, as if he had just discovered the cure for cancer or something.
One of the guys explained to Trident what I was doing there.
“You need a job?” he asked me without looking up.
“No. This was just a one-time thing.”
“Yeah? Business been good?” He finally directed his icy eyes at me and held up the thick wad he’d been counting. “This good?”
Trident was holding just a sliver of the money piled on the table; I knew the wad would never be mine, but my hungry belly would be happy if I could get just a forth of it. Maybe it was time to let someone else make a few decisions, I thought. At least temporarily. “I might be able to help you out with a few things,” I replied.
Trident asked for something like my resume and I told him. He still wasn’t convinced. He set down his cash, stood and pointed to the right. Some drugged-up chick was passed out on a dark green couch in the corner, blending in so well that her presence had avoided my initial attention.
“Shoot her,” he ordered me without emotion.
That wasn’t going to happen. While trying to appear cool, I looked around for an exit strategy. I couldn’t find one. Trident was eyeing me so hard that I could feel it.
Suddenly, he burst out in a sick, mirthless laugh, and everyone in the room joined in. “Good one,” said some lackey.
“Yeah,” I agreed, and forced a grin.
“I don’t test people,” Trident explained. “You fail, you get fired. Simple.” He went back to counting his money.
I started working a few days later. I don’t know what else Trident had going on, but the crew I was with mostly did smash and grabs of varying difficulty. We always got well-paid for our efforts, and after two weeks my coffer was full enough for my modest purposes.
I never knew much about the guys I worked with. No ne ever spoke unless it was absolutely necessary, on or off the clock. Instead, they simply wore that stupid stone gaze of a hardened criminal that they must have picked up from watching a thousand gangster movies. The thing is, I know they had interesting stories (the history of Trident’s name for one thing). We all did. But it was like a point of pride with these guys to be boring. So after awhile, once the money wasn’t enough to keep me faithful to Trident, I yearned to get back to my independent life.
But breaking away wasn’t going to be easy, and I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to do it when Trident called me to the office one night. The place was unusually empty of cronies, except for some guy I only knew as “Jack.”
Trident asked me if I had brought a gun. I hadn’t. He tossed one on the table and told me to go with Jack.
I don’t like guns. Like a lucky cop, I’ve never had to fire one. They might be good to have in certain special circumstances, but I never saw the need to always walk around strapped. I picked up the weapon and felt its weight. It was much heavier than my little peacemaker collecting dust back in my apartment. I don’t like guns because I don’t like violence. I don’t mind robbing people because they can always replace whatever I take, if they’re so inclined. But violence--taking someone’s health or even their life--crossed into a territory where I wasn’t willing to tread. My stomach felt queasy. I don’t know why your God decided to make people like Trident, but I doubt it was a good enough reason.
Jack drove and I asked about the job.
“We gotta take care of something.”
“Yeah, I figured. What?”
“Some accountant. Did something he shouldn’t have done.”
We didn’t speak anymore. We came to a nice, clean neighborhood and parked on the street. It was about one in the morning and dead silent. Jack told me to follow him.
We approached a house that could only be described as “quaint.” It even had a white picket fence. I didn’t think such a thing really existed, but there it was. We went to the back and Jack got us into the house within a minute.
The kitchen smelled like sweet dough. We pulled out our guns.
The living room was decorated with flowers and paintings and framed photographs. The photographs continued to hug the wall up the staircase. As I followed Jack up the steps, I got a good look at old photos of young couples, new photos of old couples, babies, birthdays, the ocean, The Grand Canyon. At the top of the steps, I knew I wasn’t going to hurt these people. I needed to stop Jack. I needed, for once in my life, to do something good. You’ve been talking about redemption all day, right? Well, I wanted to redeem myself, I suppose.
Jack swung open the first door we came to and pointed his weapon inside. It was the bathroom. I lowered my gun.
He crept to the next door. It was slightly ajar. Jack pushed it open and flipped on the lights. He blocked the doorway, so I couldn’t see inside. I only could hear a woman scream and a man yell, “Wait!”
Jack took a few steps forward and lifted his gun.
I fired mine. The bullet shot through Jack’s liver.
He froze, then dropped his weapon. He fell to the floor and that’s when I saw where the bullet had traveled after it had torn through the bad guy: into the good guy’s skull.
Jack was moaning. The man was dead. I ran.
And I’m still running. But your eyes compelled me to pause and tell you my story. Somewhere, perhaps in the very book you’re pushing, it is written: “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” That’s too true.
I doubt you’ll allow the deeper meaning of my story to shatter your faith. Fair enough. Like most people, you’d rather cling to the belief that anything means anything. You’re wrong, of course, but I know that your lie is the only path to happiness. Too bad. Have a blessed day.
