And when Irma asks me what am I thinking when I am so quiet, what am I feeling, the way women will ask that is like picking at a scab to see if the scab will come off and blood will ooze out below and they will then be upset and repelled by what they see—I am very quiet trying not to be visibly angry, that this person would wish to pry into my life, get beneath my skin when my skin is all that I have, to protect me.
I am safe at the Toms River Haven Home, and I am safe at church, and I am safe here (in the Cassells’s house where I have a room at the back that had once belonged to the Cassells’s son who’d been shipped to Afghanistan and had not returned except in a body bag to be buried in the Muhlenberg cemetery), but I am not safe in many places including my mother’s house and my uncle T.’s house and my relatives’ houses; I am not safe in public. My life has been threatened many times—(hundreds? thousands?)—but I am mostly unaware of these threats that are online, on the Internet, on Twitter, the name Brandon Schrank is everywhere.
In the Cassells’s son’s old room there is a water stain on the ceiling that you might think, if you stare at it long enough, lying on the bed with your eyes open and unblinking, is a widened and lidless eye staring back at you.
I was armed not because I wished to harm others but I wished to protect others.
On a bus for instance if there is a gang of “youths”—if they are threatening to women or older persons—(who might be persons of color themselves, as well as white people)—I would think that I might intervene. I was not looking to be heroic but to make a difference in life.
I am not sure what the wrong thing was, that I did that day. Taking my uncle’s gun without asking him—that was the start of it. Yet, if I had not been armed, I might not be alive now. And so it was a decision that, though “wrong” at the time, would seem to be “right” now.
Yes. I have discussed this issue many times with my minister.
Yes. I have discussed this issue many times with my therapist.
I have given much thought to this issue for it is like one of those plastic games like a remote control where you have to push the little colored squares around, to make a pattern. You try, and you try, and you try to make a pattern, which is to “win” the game, but you can’t, though you know it can be done and that by accident, at least once, you have done it yourself.
Yes. I believe that God has forgiven me. I know that many people are outraged at me for saying this simple fact but I never believed that God had been angry with me that He would need to “forgive” me. I never believed that God would wish to deny me my life since God gave me my life thirty years ago this November 2.
Leaving the old red-brick post office building on Main Street with so many stone steps. Where I’d gone to talk to my cousin who works there, not at the counter but back in the sorting area, so it was a hassle to get him, and I was feeling pissed, and Andy wasn’t in a great mood, and it is no one’s business the transaction between us—(that I needed to borrow money from Andy for repairs to my car). And behind the post office, down a hill, is the old Sears site now rubble and trash, but there’s a cleared-away space for people to park their vehicles and not pay money at a meter. And there are these kids hanging out there, not all the time but sometimes, harassing people, or just looking at them in a way that is like a threat like if you were a (white) woman, for instance; or a (white) man. These kids hanging out in the lot are not always black-skinned, actually. There’s white kids you see there sometimes, or older guys, any-color-skin, drug dealers could be, they are thugs—“gangstas”—and you walk past them quickly not meeting their eyes. And they laugh saying Fag! Fag-got! Not always but sometimes, this has happened sometimes, and I am thinking how I will be prepared, as I was not prepared in high school, I would be prepared and I would take the gun out of my jacket, and lift and aim and pull the trigger as Uncle T. had taught me as a kid—you don’t jerk the trigger, and you don’t pull the trigger—you press the trigger. And the smirking faces turn to looks of astonishment and horror as the fucking thugs protest No! Hey no man—don’t shoot . . .
When I pray on my knees the congregation of the Church of Christ is praying with me. Reverend Baumann has said What is done to the least of you, is done to me. Always remember—Jesus said to the good thief, today you will be with me in paradise.
It is never clear to me, what the Bible means to say; or what ministers draw from the Bible, to convey to us. It is mostly like a foreign language you hear somebody speaking in which now and then—(maybe it’s mistakenly)—you hear something that makes sense.
Jesus in your heart. His love will bear you through the Valley of the Shadow of the Death not once but many times Amen.
Not a great day, last April. No work again this week and my damn fucking car needs an overhaul. Dropped by Uncle T.’s to ask for a few dollars’ loan but can’t get the words out, Uncle T. would give me the money (probably) but I already owe him—how much, can’t remember—God damn embarrassing, at my age and with my skills. And Uncle T. goes down the hall to use the bathroom (and I’m seeing the old guy unsteady on his feet, having to press a hand against the wall so’s to keep his balance which is painful to observe)—and there I am opening the drawer and have the gun in my hand, inside my jacket pocket thinking this .45 caliber police service revolver just kept there in the God-damn drawer with kitchen crap. And at the back of the door is Uncle T.’s gun like some damn forgotten toy. And I’m not thinking a thing—nobody will believe me maybe but I am not thinking a thing not premeditating or planning just—suddenly the gun is in my hand, and that feels right.
Like solving the plastic puzzle, pushing the right colored square in just the right place. And you know—it’s a fit.
And I’m out of there, and Uncle T. blinks at me in surprise—had just one beer with him, and he’d been expecting a session of serious drinking.
Driving aimlessly into town, and on the pedestrian bridge by the railroad track there’s a tall skinny black kid leaning on the railing so I park a half-block away and return and there’s a bulge in this kid’s pocket for sure—(knife? gun?)—but there’s other kids, schoolkids just getting out yelling and tossing stones down into the river and the black kid changes his mind about hanging out there, and leaves walking fast. And later, by the high school, the drive-through parking lot at the back and there’s black kids looking a lot older and meaner than they’d looked when I was a student there. And later I’m on foot behind the Market Basket there’s this older black kid maybe nineteen, just kind of standing there and he’s looking at me kind of funny—(I think)—and his mouth working like he’s talking to himself—and my heart starts beating fast before I am even thinking—We are alone and there is no one to see. If I turn my back, he could jump me. But then two things happen, to interfere: a (white) man opens the rear door, calls to the black kid, and the kid comes over and disappears inside then emerges with a case of something heavy and takes it to a pickup truck and he’s delivering groceries or something like that so I’m thinking kind of mocking to myself—Fuck this, asshole. Just go home, you’re fucked.
But then after the post office and talking to Andy there, and I’m not in a great mood, feeling really shitty, and there’s some kids in the alley, loudmouths like rappers, and pants hanging half down their asses like gangstas, and I’m thinking how in the winter there’s a problem in the parking lot here with kids throwing snowballs, harassing customers from the post office and my car was struck by a damn snowball last winter. It’s mostly black kids, a certain kind of black kid, not all black kids but the majority, it’s like they are interchangeable like some race thing how they hang together and look at you, and you can see how they’re like hyenas or something that’d want to tear out your throat with their God-damn teeth that for all we know they sharpen like razors, like some savages in Africa sharpen their teeth.
First off, there was some black kids at the edge of the parking lot, five or six of them coming home f
rom school, yelling and laughing like hyenas, and this other boy, who wasn’t with them, and had to be older, and he’s crossing through the lot like he has some destination and I’m standing there in his path so he has to look up at me kind of surprised, and he decides he will go around me but without looking at me now, and his head bowed, like he is not even aware of me and how I am looking at him; and I’m standing in front of him again, and he’s thinking what the hell, I see a flash of his eyes and it’s then that I see there are no witnesses right now, and this is my chance.
God has sent you a sign out of your entire life. You would be a shameful coward to run from it.
So I say to this fuckface black kid what’s he want with me? Why’s he following me? And he right-away says he is not following me which is what any of them would say, who intend to mug you or beat your head in with a rock. And I’m not excited, my voice is not raised, like on TV I am calmly telling this kid to get out of my way, better get out of my fucking way, and he’s scared as hell I can see, and looking around to see if anybody’s watching, and ready to run so I tell him stay where he is, I have the gun in my hand but held low, against my leg held in such a way that if anyone saw us from (for instance) the alley beside the post office they wouldn’t see what is in my hand. And I tell him get onto his knees. I am still calm-seeming telling this punk to get onto his knees and pray and if he prays for his life the right way, so that God hears him, he will not be hurt.
It is a surprise to me, a good surprise, to see how scared this kid is, though taller than I am, and I see that he is (maybe) younger than I’d thought he was. Skinny kid like the other one at the pedestrian bridge, almost I’m embarrassed to have caught this one like catching an undersized fish or hunting and shooting an undersized buck, or a doe or fawn. And yet, God has sent this one to me. I tell him he isn’t praying hard enough—“God havin trouble hearin you, man.”
(It’s funny, in black jive-talk dialect. Except the kid is too scared to appreciate the humor.)
I am not frightened but I am excited and my hand holding the gun is shaking and so I steady it with my other hand so the shaking is less. And I am swallowing hard for my throat is very dry. It is a joke to be doing this—(isn’t it?)—for I do not intend to shoot this kid, or any kid of any-skin color only just to scare him a little, teach the motherfucker respect.
He is on his knees in the rubble. He is not praying but he is begging me.
He is saying Don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me—he is begging me.
Yet somehow, the gun goes off. I did not press the trigger but somehow, the trigger is pressed, and the gun goes off. The explosion is deafening to me but not very real. This is not happening—this thought came to me as from a distant star, as I pull at the trigger another time, and another, it is as if the gun is firing itself, once it has started.
The boy is face-first on the ground in the rubble. Like in a movie there is blood so fast, but it is not like a movie how I am standing here with the gun not knowing what to do now, next; and the gun is quiet now, all the bullets are gone. And I am thinking how lonely I am, I am all alone here. There is no one here now but me.
The defense fund is more than $120,000 and it is only September first!
Yet, of all the people who are my friends and who have sent money and prayed for me, still I am alone. And I am thinking that the only person who I could talk to, who would understand something of what this is, is “Nelson Herrara”—who I’d never known, when we were alive.
Leaving to visit Irma, who lives in a duplex across town with her two little daughters. Irma is making dinner for us so we are like a family the four of us at the table in her kitchen and with two little girls there is always chatter and something to talk about so the conversation does not depend upon me.
Irma is shivery-thrilled to be with me. Sometimes I see her eyes on me like a cat’s eyes reflecting the light. And it is exciting to her, she has told just a few friends and relatives. When I drive to her house, I park at the back, so that from the street you can’t see my car. And though there have been no incidents, and no particular threats associated with her, Irma has put up blinds on all the windows of her house that hadn’t had blinds, upstairs and down.
On my way out of the Cassells’s house I see that there is a package on the front porch. How it got there without the dogs barking like crazy is not clear.
This package does not seem to have been sent through the U.S. mail. Mail addressed to BRANDON SCHRANK does not come to this address but to a P.O. Box where there are provisions for large quantities of mail placed in bins.
I am thinking—Is it a present? Is it a bomb?
At such times, you can’t predict which times, I can become very excited. That is, my heartbeat is quickened and the palms of my hands are cold so I know that I am excited though in my thoughts I am calm. I am thinking how, if you did a brain X-ray of me, you would see how my “brain waves” are slow and measured like a quiet surf. In a way I am calm as if whatever will happen has already happened long ago and it is all over. And Nelson Herrara and Brandon Schrank are granite gravestones side by side in some quiet place unknown to the public.
And I wonder for a minute if this is so?—if the second trial began and ended like the first, in a “mistrial.” And if this is the case, will there be a third trial? Mr. Perrine has said There will always be one holdout juror on our side. That is an incontestable fact.
And so, the trial is yet to come. And guilt/acquittal yet to come.
Back in April already it was made clear to me, I am never supposed to touch such packages. Let alone lift them, or shake them, or try to open them. Of course—I know this! It makes me laugh to think of the Cassells and Mr. Jorgenson and Mr. Perrine and all the others on my side, who are counting on me to prevail, frowning at me now. Like they can scold me.
And Irma is waiting for me. And Irma has asked, are we engaged? Am I your fiancée, Brandon?
I am trying to gauge God’s feeling here. Sometimes it is very clear what God feels, and sometimes not. One thing is clear: in my heart I am not a murderer. God understands for He sees into every heart. And so, it would be likely that the package, which is carefully wrapped in brown paper, will be some “gift” for me which could be home-baked cookies or my own picture taken from the website which someone has transferred onto a piece of colored plastic.
It is strange how I watch myself. Sometimes I think, I am in a cartoon like the Simpsons in which funny things happen nonstop and people are hurt sometimes but recover swiftly as Homer Simpson recovers every indignity. I am seeing myself behave strangely. I am seeing myself stoop to pick up the package—and bring the package into the house—and into the Cassells’s kitchen. It is good that there is no one to observe for they would not approve. Mr. Cassell is gone from the house, and Mrs. Cassell is with some volunteer worker in the big room where my mail is being sorted, envelopes opened and donations retrieved. I am in the kitchen, and I have set the package on the kitchen table. There is some flashback to entering Uncle T.’s kitchen and opening the drawer to find the revolver—(that I knew absolutely was there)—as I pull open the drawer here to locate a pair of scissors. And I am thinking, the way I have come to think slow thoughts like lying on my back on Vernon Cassells’s former bed staring up at the eye in the ceiling staring down at me—If this is where I have been sent, it is right to be here. There is no other place for me, for now. The package is a cardboard box measuring approximately eighteen inches by twelve inches and it is somewhat heavy—maybe ten pounds. I lower my head to listen, to see if it is ticking. (This is a joke of course. It is not ticking.) After rummaging around in the drawer, I have found it—a pair of scissors. I will cut the string and I will use the sharp point of the scissors like a knife, to open the package addressed in large black-inked letters
MR BRANTON SCHWANK
Gun Accident
An Investigation
1.
r /> Do you recall the sequence of events? They asked me.
But I could not reply coherently. Because I could not remember coherently. The gun was fired close beside my head. The explosion was so loud I could not hear and I could not see and when I realized where I was, the right side of my head had struck the hardwood floor just beyond the rug and that was where I was lying but I could not move. On the floor it came to me that I was shot, and (maybe) I was dead because I did not feel anything or hear anything.
For a long time then I did not move for (maybe) I was dead. It was a thought a clever child would have—if I did not try to move, and did not fail to move, then I would not know (maybe) if I was dead or if I was still alive.
2.
I am begging him No! Go away.
It is still the time when he is alive. Before the bullet enters his chest, and his heart explodes.
Travis is alive and he is on his feet but he does not hear me. He is alive but he is laughing at me and so he does not hear me. And I realize that my throat is shut up tight and the words are trapped inside my head. Go away go away! Please go away!—I am begging him.
It is that time he cannot realize—he is still alive. He is laughing and his face is bright-glaring with happiness because he is alive and cannot imagine any time when he will be not-alive for (it is said) no animal can comprehend its own death.
There is Travis, and there is the other who is older than Travis. Instinctively I know that I must not look at his face. I must not lift my eyes to his face. I must not give him any reason to believe that I might identify him.