A Very Short Story about a Very Long Moment.
In my younger and much wilder days, when I still had hair, I took up residence in a house that could match the definition above. Just without the crack. If you were looking for most anything else to alter your perceptions, that was the place to hang out though. It was loud and dirty. Grungy and hardcore. Somewhere between the gutter and the stars. Some nights there were even mini-raves with glow sticks hung from the ceiling fans and that abominable techno kept me awake. Needless to say, there was very little chill there.
Having lived there for some time, I got familiar with a lot of the faces that came through. It was mostly a younger crowd. Around my age and a couple years younger. A few of these folks I knew since they were little snots who were coming into their 20s now. Truth be told, I may have babysat a couple of them growing up. The majority were people I didn't know. Which was fine by me. I was much more outgoing, friendlier, and definitely naïve as all hell at that time. I wanted to make friends. And I did. It's how I met Dale. I wanted people to know my name. And they did. Though, it wasn't my real name. Somewhere along the way I picked up a nickname, which there is no need to share. The circumstances that brought me to live there are also not terribly important. Call it necessity. What is pertinent here is location and the events therein. The events are many, but I am going to focus on one for this story; The time I stopped some idiot from accidently spray painting the walls with his brains.
Most nights, I occupied a recliner in front of the TV. Usually with a game remote in my hand or laid-back watching trash programming. While I did have a day job, this is what I did in the meantime. My main function here was to watch the place, to keep shit civil. In order to do this little job efficiently, I was armed. A pistol was usually tucked into the cushions of my recliner. Admittedly, I have no idea who it really belonged to. It belonged to the house; I suppose. I ask no questions to hear no lies, as should you.
It need be mentioned that I had a roommate. A very wild young man. Almost a kid. We were all kids, really. But he was a friend of my sister's and we had a common interest, so we struck out together. Though, he was into all kinds of nefarious shit too, the specifics need not be mentioned. It is a well-known fact that nefarious people hang out with other nefarious people and an entourage was usually on this kid's tail. One morning he came in with the usual crew and a new face. This new face looked older than the rest of us, but not by much, maybe in his mid to upper 20s. After introductions were made, everything went straight to hell at turbo speed.
Roommate: Let me see the piece.
Me, against my better judgement: Sure.
So, I pulled it out from the chair cushion and handed it over. Without clearing it. Without ejecting the mag. Fuck, without even wiping my prints from it. Just handed it over. Thing is, I wouldn't have handed it to anyone else like that. I trusted him to know better. And of course, he did. We handled that thing like a hot plate; cautiously. Unsurprisingly, New Face asked to see the gun. Who didn't know better to say no? My roommate. Handing the hunk of metal over to New Face, I stared at my roomie for a long second before my attention went to New Face.
Without hesitation, without looking it over, New Face cocked the fucking thing and put it to his temple.
This all happened so fast but everything seemed to slow down. The shouts of "No!" and "What the fuck, man?!" and "It's loaded!" sounded slurred and warped. The agile leap from the chair toward New Face felt sluggish and heavy. It was like time was trying to stop. Before New Face could pull the trigger, three of us tackled him to the floor and disarmed him. Grabbing the gun, I stood over him, dropped the mag, and cleared the barrel. The bullet that had New Face's name on it falling from the air and into his lap. An expression that can only be described as true and utter fear came over New Face's...face. The only thing I remember about him were those sad, puppy dog eyes in that moment. I truly do not even recall his real name.
New Face, in shock: You saved my life! I didn't know it was loaded!
Me, aggravated: You are lucky I don't beat your ass, man! What the fuck?! Where do you think you are?
New Face, who has never been in a drug den: I knew it was wild down here, but not like that!
My roommate, New Face, and the rest of the gang left quickly after this little incident. I never saw New Face again. Later, I would find out that New Face was a rather innocent country boy and an artist of some renown in his chosen subculture. I also learned that the whole crew had spent the night before partying and painting. A whole houseful of people in altered states of consciousness. Not the kind of mix to be in to be honest. Everyone is young once, though, and those experiences, mistakes, and lessons shape who we become. We either learn, or repeat the same things until we do.
I don't trust most New Faces, now. I also don't hang around drug dens.
Comments
Post a Comment