Chapter 2 - Remember me...

Dec 16, 2009

There are some people that believe everything has a purpose, that every event has a distinct reason for occurring to everyone involved in the aims of maintaining some kind of cosmic balance, and that our past actions will come back to haunt us or help us depending on how we’ve behaved. Franklin Thomason was not one of those people. Life had proven to him enough times that regardless of how well you treat people, in the end it will always bite you in the ass because of some unexpected factor, some unpredictable variable that pushes people back into self-interest mode. As far as he was concerned people will hold up their end of the cosmic karma bargain only if it continues to serve their self-interest. If that means simply maintaining a friendship or relationship then that’s what it is, but he was convinced that such things were only of value to people for what it provides them, not out of some objective good or moral sense of duty on their part to maintain it.

Not that he felt this was a condemnation of the human race, it was more of an observation. He knew that humans were not in very direct control of their behavior, acting more on the innate satisfaction of instinct than anything else, so he did not look down on them for this. It is fair to say that he simply did not expect much of people, and therefore didn’t spend much time with them either.

He needed only look inward to understand this, for tonight he was the perfect example of a person not in control of their actions. Otherwise, he certainly wouldn’t be standing on this desolate street corner in the middle of the night waiting for someone to walk by and offer him some rock. He’d told himself this wouldn’t happen again, that he’d never fall back, but this wasn’t the first time and, as far as he could tell, certainly wouldn’t be the last. With hoodie pulled far over his face, he examined the miscreants surrounding him, the street people, and felt some disdain, for did they have to deal with the memories he did? What were they escaping that compared to the things he’d seen, and were they just indulging or, like him, were they terrified of the idea of going to sleep.

“Listen to yourself,” Frank thought to himself, “you think you’re the only one with problems? That girl over there could be escaping a rapist of a father. You think she wants to be out here selling herself like that? Of course not. At least you have a place to sleep tonight. Suck it up!” No, he was more at home among these people than he was anywhere else, and the idea of that made him sick to his stomach. What happened to that noble marine? That strong soldier? Something was dead in him, now, and every time he came to a place like this it died a little more.

Nothing yet. No one was holding. He even just started asking random passersby for a hook up but only got odd glares. He’d heard something about a bust a few nights previously and concluded that the marketplace must have moved elsewhere for the time being. The nearby park was an obvious choice, covered by the darkness and shadows of trees it made for the perfect place when business could not be conducted out in the open. He wandered slowly in, first remaining among the well-lit areas but soon moving into the depths in search of his fix.

Slowly moving down a dirt path he looked left and right cautiously. He had been trained to deal with worse situations than this in Iraq, and wasn’t even breaking a sweat. There isn’t much a place like this can serve up that he couldn’t deal with, but he still remained alert. He ventured towards the river as he’d heard that was where the prostitutes took their johns to perform their business. If he was going to find some crack anywhere that would be a good place to start asking; he’d just have to wait until one of them was finished a trick and then offer them some cash for a pointer. As he approached he could hear some commotion, so as to not disturb them he crept slowly up within some tall grass. What he saw, unfortunately, was not what he expected. Along the riverside were two young black men who had one other young black man on his knees with hands tied behind his back execution style. The taller of the two captors kicked him in the back and he yelped out in pain.

Frank wasn’t sure what to do, but one option that was definitely removed from consideration was getting involved. If anything his military career had taught him it was that no one is innocent and there’s no such thing as the “good guys”, so no justice he could dish out here would improve the overall shitty nature of the universe, and there just wasn’t enough time to figure out what justice was in this specific situation. No, what he was trying to figure out was the safest way to remove himself from the immediate area without being noticed.

Unfortunately for him, that wasn’t going to happen. Soon after the tied up youth fell to the ground he was shot in the back of the head by the one who didn’t kick him. Frank was so startled by this that he stumbled back and fell over a log, creating just enough noise to distract the two murderers attention after the sound of their gunshot finished echoing into the night. Frank looked up, saw their heads dart in his direction, and his training instantly triggered a flight response, knowing that he had been seen and would be dealt with in a similar fashion as the boy who now lay dead with his bloodied head submersed in the riverbed. He quickly performed a backwards roll, was on his feet, and running, the two youths not far behind.

A bullet fired behind him and an extra shot of adrenaline poured into his bloodstream. He could feel it pumping through his veins, and could almost hear the muscles in his legs tearing as he exerted them beyond reasonable limits. Still, he was older than them, and he hadn’t exactly been keeping himself in shape lately with all the drug abuse and lack of exercise. If he was going to get out of this situation alive he was going to need to rely on his training and wits.

Within a few minutes of the dash beginning, or seconds, he couldn’t be sure, Frank spotted a small cluster of trees with a large bush next to them. He darted for these trees and cut a hard left turn into their cover. Once concealed for that brief moment he slid to his belly and hid within the outskirts of the bush. The two youths came running around the same way and as soon as they noticed that he was no longer in front of them they started to slow. In that short moment Frank took his advantage and ran from the bushes towards them, tackling the youth with the gun. There was a brief scuffle but Frank quickly took the weapon from his possession, rolled off him, knelt and with precise aim shot the other boy in the chest as he charged. The one he had disarmed rose to his feet and moved towards Frank, but with expert reactions Frank already had him covered. The youth stopped dead in his tracks, his blue bandanna sloppily covering half of his face, disheveled from the scuffle.

Both of them stood there, staring at each other, out of breath and panting heavily. To Frank’s left he could distinctly hear the sound of the boy he shot coughing up blood, and he knew then that the kid was done for. Not that he felt any guilt about his decision to fire, he just wish this whole thing didn’t have to happen. It started to rain.

“So whatcha gonna do, white boy muthafucka?” The youth said proudly. “You gots me under the gun! Whatcha gonna do?!” Rain dripped down his face and he corrected the bandana.

Frank held the gun at arm’s length and didn’t waver, didn’t shiver despite being cold. “Stay still!” He ordered. “You want to end up like your friend over here?!” he questioned, pointing the gun briefly in the other kid’s direction.

“I don’t give a fuck!” He yelled back defiantly. “You do whatcha gotta do!”

Frank frowned, and pointed the gun a little more sternly as the young man swallowed hard. Something in his eyes, that look that was trying to indicate confidence and strength but deep down you could see he was terrified. It reminded Frank of his time in the middle east, that one terrible day that changed everything for him. He was faced with a situation not too unlike this, a young boy with an assault rifle he picked up from God knows where pointing it in his direction. Frank had just killed his father in the crossfire of a conflict with armed insurgents. He was holding the child in his arms when his head just exploded from gunfire. He should have stayed inside but the instinct to flee, especially when your children are involved, can be so strong that no rational reasoning will keep you safe. To this child Frank was the white devil, the aggressor. All he knew is that his father was dead because of Frank and he knew of nothing else to do other than pick up that gun and aim it. It was the only solution he’d ever known or seen practiced. Violence was his life, and this gun was his safety net, his new father even. His protector. Frank aimed in self-defense and screamed, in English, for the child to drop the weapon. He wept, and apologized, but the child understood none of it. A shot flew out in Frank’s direction, terribly aimed in contrast to the shot that followed from Frank’s barrel, splitting the youth’s forehead in two, his body falling stiffly to the ground.

Frank wept silently again now, not knowing what to do. This time was going to be different from the last, and he was going to take his advantage this time and use it to do the right thing. The cynicism, his distrust of human nature, all left once again and he made another leap of faith. All his life experiences would dictate to him that it was the wrong thing to do, but that never stopped him before.

Rain poured down Frank’s face as he spoke. “I’m going to leave now. I don’t want to hurt you,” He lowered the weapon to his side. “but I’m going to keep your gun.” Frank took a step even closer to him, and moved his face into the light. “I got my own shit going on, you understand? I don’t give a fuck what you do. I don’t give a fuck that you shot that guy by the river. I don’t give a fuck what you go and do once I’m gone. Do you understand? I’m not bringing any heat on myself!” He looked sternly into the kid’s eyes and pointed back at himself. “Look at me! Remember my face! REMEMBER! You owe me, now, and one day if you get the chance to look the other way when you see me doing something you DO IT! UNDERSTAND?!”

A feeling of relief was communicated through the youth’s relax in posture. “Yeah.” He said simply.

“Good.” Frank said, and turned to walk away. Shortly, however, inspiration struck him and he turned back. The kid tensed up again.

“You got any rock?” Frank asked.

Confused, he stared at Frank for a second and then muttered. “Yeah.”

“Give me a gram!” Frank said, pointing the gun back in his face.

“Motherfucker…” the kid muttered as he reached into his pocket and handed a tiny plastic baggie with a small rock of crack cocaine to Frank.

“Drop it on the ground” Frank ordered. He did so. “How much do I owe you?” Frank asked.

“What the f….”

“I don’t want to steal from you! I just want some fucking rock! That’s the only reason I’m fucking out here!” Frank yelled. “How much do I owe you?!”

“Twenty-five” the youth said with unusually precise diction.

Frank took out the money and put it in the kid’s front pocket while keeping him under cover of the gun the whole time. He leaned down, picked up the baggie, backed away for a few steps and then turned and ran. Instead of dropping the gun like every gangster movie had ever taught him to do, it now being involved in at least two murders, he put it in his inside pocket. He knew that he would never be considered in any official investigation, no police would be visiting him, and something about this whole experience told him that he would need it.